'"■••dCi 


POCKEB 


tssssssi 


i'^:i 


n 


RUPERT 
HUGHES 


r  ^^ 


EMPTY    POCKETS 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.arGhive.org/details/emptypocketsOOhughiala 


Met    •o*tco|iiCTy-^»l»Gt 


[See  p.  236 

It  was  glorious  to  be  felt  sorry  for  by  such  a  being  as  this. 


Empty  Pockets 


By  RUPERT  HUGHES 


Author  of 
'Excuse  Me,  Etc. 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  -  -  NEW  YORK 

Pl'BLished  by  Arrangement  with  Harper  Sz  Brothers 


f3rynt*HT.  1914.  ibis,  by  harper  a  BROxHewi 

PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 
PUBLISHED    MAY,    ISIS 


URL 


ILLUSTRATIONS  '^-^ 

tfU/  ii^,,  .r  .--i^f  JJ-  ^..:r.,,    _«-,.3//d  ^U-T, 

It  was  Glorious  to  be  Felt  Sorry  For  by  Such 

A  Being  as  This      .    .    .- ProntispUu 

Muriel  Forgot  Her  Anger  and  Her  Danger  in  a 

Swift  Remorse  for  What  She  had  Not  Caused    Page        56 

She  Talked  to  the  Old  Man  as  to  a  Child,  Plead- 
ing, Promising  Never  to  Bother  Him  Again, 
IF  He  Would  Yield  Only  This  Once      ...       "       120 

Red  Ida  Knew  Muriel  Instantly  from  Her  Num- 
ber less  Pictures  in  the  Newspapers.  She 
Whispered:  "That's  Muriel  Schuyler.  Her 
Old  Man's  Woith  a  Billion  Dollars"  ...       "       248 

Worthing    Had    Only    One    Thought— Muriel's 

Safety "       312 

She    Made    No  Resistance.    Shang   Simply  Kept 

Saying,  "Remember,  Lady,  Remember"  ...       "       325 

Muriel  Had  No  Knowledge  of  the  Intrigues  Go- 
ing on  About  Her "       440 

A  Sudden  Vicious  Inspiration  Led  Pet  to  Flick 

the  Ashes  into  Perry's  Eye       "       472 

Pet  had  Forgotten  to  Say  "Thank  You!"  but  it 
IS  Not  Expected  of  Untamed  Animals  Given 
Their  Liberty "       568 

Her  Knees  Weakened  and  She  Sat  Down  on  the 

Step  and  Put  Out  Her  Arms "       592 


EMPTY    POCKETS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  exquisite  Mr.  Merithew,  the  amused  and  amusing 
millionaire,  the  ingenious  contriver  of  quaint  diver- 
sions, the  walking  fashion-plate,  the  jester  who  moved 
familiarly  among  the  eminent,  tweaked  the  ladies'  ears, 
and  plucked  the  ermine  of  the  railroad  presidents;  whose 
doings  were  read  about  with  adoration  by  the  enormous 
snobbery  that  devours  the  news  of  the  rich  and  out- 
snobs  the  snobs — this  Mr.  Merithew  had  seen  nearly  all 
of  the  best  and  worst  of  the  world  except  the  slimis  of 
New  York.  The  slums  of  foreign  cities  he  found  pic- 
turesque, servile,  full  of  beggars.  He  was  not  responsible 
for  their  slums.  With  his  almost  womanly  intuition  he 
felt  that  he  would  feel  disturbed  if  he  inspected  the 
pauperdom  of  New  York.  He  always  said  when  he  was 
invited  to  visit  the  lower  East  Side: 

"No,  thanks!  It's  the  last  place  on  earth  where  you'll 
ever  find  me." 

And  it  was.     He  was  found  there,  dead. 

The  smile  that  had  won  him  the  name  of  "Merry 
Perry  "  was  fixed  as  plaster  of  Paris  after  it  has  set.  The 
foppery  that  had  been  a  national  proverb  was  stained 
with  the  rust  of  tin;  it  was  disheveled  and  crimson  from 
his  wounds. 

There  were  people  who  pretended  to  be  surprised  that 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Merry  Perry  did  not  bleed  blue.  They  would  not  take 
him  seriously  even  then.  He  had  been  the  joke  of  New 
York;  and  New  York  had  been  his, 

"To  him  that  hath!"  While  millions  of  honorable  and 
industrious  people  were  fighting  for  enough  to  eat  and  a 
comer  to  sleep  in,  three  fortimes  had  been  his  inheritance. 
When  he  squandered  one,  another  was  provided.  They 
had  not  sufficed  him  for  his  own  whims.  How  could  he 
have  had  any  alms  left  for  the  poor?  Especially  as  he  did 
not  like  the  poor.  He  had  done  nothing  for  them  except 
to  give  them  a  little  laughter  at  his  magnificent  flip- 
pancies, and  to  confirm  them  in  one  of  the  few  luxurious 
vices  of  the  poor,  which  is  their  open  contempt  for  the 
wealthy,  their  belief  that  the  rich  have  no  right  to  their 
riches,  and  that  all  rich  people  are  bad.  The  poor  have 
almost  always  had  more  contempt  for  the  rich  than  from 
them,  for  pity  does  not  mollify  their  disdain. 

Merry  Perry  had  not  approved  of  the  poor  any  more 
than  they  of  him.  He  had  fled  from  them  because  he 
beUeved  them  to  be  dirty,  disorderly,  ugly,  and  dismal, 
and  he  hated  dirt,  he  loathed  disorder  and  ungrace;  he 
abominated  sorrow. 

And  now,  as  if  Fate  had  grinned  and  spat  upon  him  at 
last,  his  death-bed  was  the  stm-blistered  roof  of  a  repulsive 
tenement  in  the  most  crowded  square  mile  on  the  face  of 
the  earth. 

A  woman  found  him.  A  woman  whose  frowsy,  grace- 
less, unkempt,  unclean  appearance  would  have  made 
him  recoU  from  her,  recoiled  from  him.  Her  ancestors, 
compelled  by  their  German  persecutors  to  select  a  new 
family  name,  had  gracefully  chosen  "spray  of  roses"; 
but  Mrs.  Rosenzweig  did  not  live  down  to  her  patronym. 
She  looked  more  like  a  collection  of  balloons.  It  was 
amazing  how  fat  she  got  on  so  Httle  to  eat.  It  was 
regrettable  that  she  could  not  afford  to  buy  what  she 
could  so  ill  afford  to  do  without — corsets. 

Her  home  was  two  crowded  rooms  high  up  in  a  dismal 

2 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

tenement  facing  on  Orchard  Street  near  its  crossing  with 
Stanton. 

It  was  a  tall  tenement,  and  the  rickety  stairs  hardly 
supported  her  as  she  squeezed,  panting,  to  their  top  and 
emerged,  pushing  a  wash-basket  far  ahead  of  her.  Her 
mouth  was  full  of  clothes-pins  and  her  gaze  was  upward  to 
avoid  collision  with  the  web  of  wash-lines.  She  saw  that 
her  own  rope  had  been  cut  by  some  marauder.  She 
started  forward  with  a  muffled  grunt  of  anger. 

It  was  then  that  she  discovered  Perry  Merithew,  feU 
over  his  legs,  and  sprawled  on  all-fours  across  the  creaking 
basket.  She  must  have  looked  like  some  uncouth  animal 
as  she  turned  to  stare,  then  shuddered  back  on  all-fours, 
emitting  shrieks  and  clothes-pins. 

Perry  Merithew,  Esquire,  lay  between  her  and  the  pent- 
house door.  She  howled  for  somebody  to  come  and  take 
him  away;  but  it  was  the  busiest  hour  of  the  market  war 
in  the  street  below,  and  most  of  the  men  were  out  selling 
what  most  of  the  women  were  out  buying.  Even  up  here, 
the  racket  occasioned  by  the  gradual  transfer  of  the 
contents  of  the  push-carts  into  the  black  leather  market- 
bags  had  the  sound  of  a  surf  where  sea-gulls  scream  and 
quarrel. 

The  roof,  too,  was  inclosed  by  walls  and  no  one  heard  or 
heeded  Mrs.  Rosenzweig  and  her  burly  terror.  She  had 
to  work  her  way  unaided  around  the  gruesome  Mr. 
Merithew.  She  kept  her  eyes  on  him  as  if  he  might  jump 
at  her.  The  grip  of  lifelong  penury  was  evident  in  the 
automatic  groping  of  her  miserly  hands  for  every  last  one 
of  her  clothes-pins  before  she  dragged  herself  and  her 
basket  backward  through  the  penthouse  door. 

Thence  she  stumbled  down  the  stairs  to  her  own  room 
where  two  of  her  children  were.  The  other  children  and 
the  husband  and  the  boarder  who  shared  the  two-room 
suite  were  absent.  First,  Mrs.  Rosenzweig  called  for  a 
"glass  wasser"  and  mumbled  it  and  choked  before  she 
could  explain  that  she  had  seen  the  work  of  the  Angel  of 

3 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Death.  She  told  her  boy  Hermann  to  "bring  once  a  po- 
licer  right  away  qmck." 

Hermann,  who  was  bom  in  America,  and  had  imbibed 
liberty  and  impudence  with  his  milk,  told  his  mother, 
"Ah,  go  on!"  But  he  ran  up  to  the  roof  and  gazed  a 
long  whUe  at  the  interesting  stranger.  Then  he  ran  down- 
stairs and  told  his  sister  Lillie  that  there  was  "a  swell 
stiff  up-stairs." 

Lillie  called  him  a  liar  and  ran  up  as  he  ran  down. 

When  Officer  Madigan  plowed  his  way  through  the 
market  riot  and  attained  the  roof  he  found  a  crowd 
already  gathered  in  a  staring  circle  like  a  pack  of  coyotes 
round  a  man  sleeping  by  a  fire.  Nobody  knew  who 
he"  was.  His  fame  had  not  extended  into  this  reahn. 
Madigan  would  have  called  the  man  a  "plain  drunk" 
but  for  the  red  and  the  white  and  the  breathlessness. 

Other  policemen  arrived,  fighting  their  way  up  the 
jammed  staircase.  They  were  not  long  in  deciding  that 
it  was  a  case  of  robbery  ornamented  with  assassination. 
There  were  no  identifying  cards  or  letters,  but  a  pocket- 
book  was  foimd  empty;  a  watch-chain  dangled  watchless, 
and  there  were  indications  that  a  scarf-pin  had  been 
hastily  removed  from  the  scarf.  There  were  no  coins  in 
the  pockets.  While  the  police  were  debating  whether  or 
not  to  touch  the  body  before  the  coroner  was  summoned, 
two  reporters  appeared.  The  flies  were  there  first,  and 
now  the  reporters. 

Mr.  Merithew  was  in  the  hands  of  the  public.  His 
first  epitaph  would  be  head-lines. 

Two  reporters  had  chanced  to  be  passing  through  the 
jumbled  masses  of  Rivington  Street  in  search  of  another 
"story"  when  they  saw  the  crowds  thickening  like  ants 
aroimd  the  door  of  the  Orchard  Street  passageway. 
Orchard  Street  ordinarily  resembles  a  panic  in  a  crowded 
theater,  but  the  reporters  bucked  the  meek  throng  and 
wedged  through. 

The  taller  of  them  was  a  handsome  young  fellow  named 

4 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Raebum — not  long  escaped  from  Harvard.  The  other 
was  brindle  in  color,  with  half  of  one  eyebrow  missing; 
his  college  had  been  the  streets  of  New  York.  His  name 
was  Hallard.  At  present  he  was  drawing  money  from  the 
Gazette  and  giving  it  the  ruthless  loyalty  of  a  mercenary 
soldier.  Raebum  was  still  young  enough  to  suffer  from 
horror  and  pity  and  things  like  that.  Hallard  was  as 
sophisticated  as  an  ambulance  surgeon. 

Hallard  called  the  policeman  by  name.  He  knew 
nearly  everybody  by  name.  As  soon  as  he  had  bent  for- 
ward over  the  unknown  and  unknowing  center  of  attrac- 
tion he  called  him,  too,  by  name: 

"Merry  Perry  Merithew.     Well,  I'll  be—" 
He  did  not  finish  his  prophecy,   for  he  noted  that 
Merithew's  hands  were  clenched;    from  between  all  his 
knuckles  protruded  wisps  of  hair,  a  woman's  hair,  hair  of 
the  color  they  call  burnt  sienna. 


CHAPTER  II 

MALLARD'S  first  emotion  was  the  joy  of  a  prospector 
hoping  for  a  nugget  and  finding  a  bonanza.  He 
realized  instantly  that  he  had  stumbled  on  a  story  of  front- 
page, right-hand-column  dignity,  with  eight-column  scare- 
heads.  Perry  Merithew  had  always  been  pay-dirt,  but 
now  at  space  rates  he  would  weigh  in  every  day  for 
weeks,  perhaps  for  months.  With  a  stubborn  murderer 
well-lawyered,  a  good  long  trial,  and  several  appeals  and 
reversals  he  might  hold  out  for  years.  Hallard's  only 
regret  was  that  a  man  from  another  paper  had  stumbled 
on  the  same  lode.  But  Raebum  was  young  and  not  quite 
news-broken,  and  was  already  feeling  regret  instead  of 
rejoicing. 

Raebum  was  shaking  his  head.  "Poor  fellow!  Think 
of  his  family.  His  mother's  alive,  maybe.  And  his 
wife —    Has  he  a  wife?" 

"He  has  one  official  wife,"  Hallard  answered,  "but 
he  was  the  busy  Uttle  htmmiing-bird  of  the  village. 
There'll  be  some  flutter  in  the  rose-garden  when  this  gets 
out — some  flutter,  believe  Me!" 

Raebum  was  still  elegiac.  "But  to  think  of  his  being 
killed!" 

Hallani's  amazement  was:  Ah,  that's  been  comin'  to 
him  a  long  while.  The  funny  thing  is  his  being  foimd  in 
a  place  like  this,  dead  or  alive."  The  word  "funny"  had 
come  to  have  a  technical  meaning  in  Hallard's  lexicon. 
It  was  almost  incredible  to  him  that  Perry  Merithew 
should  be  here. 

Abmptly  he  recalled  the  fact  that  he  was  first  and  fore- 

6 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

most  a  newspaper  man  and  it  was  his  prime  duty  to  give 
this  news  its  debut  in  the  Gazette.     He  said  to  Raebum: 

"Ftinny  that  nobody  saw  this  thing  done.  While  I'm 
rummaging  round  here  you  might  look  over  that  ledge 
and  see  if  any  windows  command  the  roof.  He  might 
have  been  shot  from  some  other  house." 

"  That's  so,"  said  Raebum,  and  wormed  his  way  through 
the  crowd,  while  Hallard,  glancing  about  among  the  stolid 
faces,  selected  the  alert-eyed  little  Hermann  Rosenzweig 
as  the  only  available  messenger.  He  scribbled  on  the 
margin  of  one  of  the  newspapers  he  always  carried  the 
telephone  number  of  the  Gazette  and  the  street  number  of 
the  tenement.    Then  he  printed  in  large  letters: 

City  Editor,  Gazette. 

Merry  Perry  Merithew  found  here  on  roof  murdered 
by  unknown  beauty  with  copper-colored  tresses.  Send 
every  man  you  can  spare,  also  artists.  Big  beat  if  you 
rush  extra. 

Hallard.  ■ 

He  gave  Hermann  a  quarter  to  take  the  note  to  the 
nearest  drug-store  on  Forsythe  Street  and  have  Mr. 
Pytlik  telephone  the  message.  He  promised  Hermann 
another  quarter  if  he  rettuned  with  the  answer. 

Hermann  flashed  away  like  a  carrier-pigeon  released, 
and  HaUard  resumed  his  search. 

He  had  called  the  imknown  woman  beautiful  for  three 
reasons:  in  the  first  place  all  women  who  get  into  the 
newspapers  are  beautiful;  in  the  second  place.  Perry 
Merithew  was  addicted  to  beautiful  women;  in  the  third 
place,  Hallard  felt  somehow  the  artistic  necessity  for 
haidng  her  beautiful.  He  felt  rather  proud  of  that  word 
"copper-colored,"  too.  He  had  chosen  it  hastily,  for  its 
sinister  note.  The  color  was  safe,  for  copper  abounds  in 
colors  of  all  sorts.  But  Hallard  intended  to  make  use 
of  allusions  to  the  copperhead,  that  silent,  slimy  horror 
that  strikes  without  the  alleged  warning  of  the  rattle' 

7 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

snake,  lurks  under  flowers  and  among  autumn  leaves  and 
laurels,  murders  the  innocent,  and  vanishes  without  noise 
or  trace.  Hallard  felt  almost  grateful  to  the  fair  assassin 
for  leaving  him  such  inspiring  documents. 

He  cotild  visualize  the  struggle  of  the  revengeftil  woman 
or  the  defensive  girl  stabbing  or  shooting  the  man.  Hal- 
lard would  shortly  write  the  very  words  she  had  said,  and 
describe  them  as  overheard  by  neighbors.  But  first  he 
must  have  at  least  a  theory  to  work  on.  The  police  would 
not  let  him  examine  the  body  to  see  the  nature  of  the 
wounds  so  abundantly  advertised  in  red.  He  resolved 
to  obtain  a  bit  of  that  hair.  He  stooped  quickly,  laid  hold 
of  one  of  the  strands,  and  gave  it  a  little  tug. 

"He  won't  let  go!"  he  said. 

Officer  Madigan  grasped  Hallard's  collar  and  dragged 
him  back,  commanding  him  to  "come  along  out  of  that." 
But  Hallard  brought  away  imbeknownst  a  few  threads. 
They  curled  about  his  fingers  till  he  could  transfer  them  to 
his  pocketbook  unobserved. 

"Whoever  she  was,  she  had  red  hair  and — "  Once 
more  he  eluded  Madigan  long  enough  to  bend  forward 
for  another  look.  "And  it  wasn't  pulled  out.  It  was 
cut  off!" 

Hallard's  action  had  attracted  all  eyes  to  the  eight 
little  auburn  skeins  protruding  from  the  cold  clench  of 
those  hands.  Hallard  glanced  about  among  the  crowd. 
Others  imitated  him.  The  women  were  all  bareheaded 
or  only  partly  coiffed  with  knitted  shawls.  They  were 
all  black-haired  or  brown,  save  one — a  yoimg  woman  of 
almost  Turkish  mien.  Her  hair  was  red.  Every  gaze 
fastened  on  her.  She  understood,  gasped,  flushed, 
started  to  escape.     The  press  was  too  close. 

Hallard  put  his  hand  on  one  of  her  arms.  Madigan 
seized  the  other.  She  flinched  away.  Then  with  a  sud- 
den desperation  she  broke  out  into  exclamations  of  some 
gibberish  that  nobody  imderstood.     But  her  deed  was 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

eloquent:  she  whipped  from  her  heavy  locks  a  gaudy 
comb  and  a  few  pins  and  shook  her  hair  out  like  a  flame. 
Then  she  bent  her  head  for  the  inspection  of  whoso 
wished.  She  ran  her  fingers  about  her  blazing  scalp  and 
it  was  evident  that  no  knife  or  scissors  had  ever  worked 
mischief  there. 

Hallard  with  the  franchise  of  his  calling  dared  to  make 
sure.  He  put  his  hand  upon  her  head  and  she  leaped 
back  in  scarlet  shame,  with  a  little  cry  of  distress.  He  had 
snapped  off  three  or  four  hairs ! 

The  outraged  woman  appealed  to  the  others  volubly, 
but  they  seemed  not  to  imderstand  her  any  more  than 
Hallard  did.  And,  not  understanding  her,  they  laughed 
at  her.  Hallard  had  picked  up  a  little  of  the  Yiddish 
dialect  in  the  course  of  his  wanderings  about  the  many 
worlds  of  New  York.  He  addressed  the  girl,  but  she 
made  no  answer. 

Mrs.  Rosenzweig,  who  had  returned  now  and  assumed 
a  sort  of  proprietorship  over  the  mystery,  explained  to 
Hallard : 

"Her?  She  dun't  speak  Yiddish.  She's  a  Oriental 
yoost  come  ofer  from  Toorkey.  Spaniolisch  she  speaks, 
could  you  talk  it,  nu." 

Hallard  had  a  little  knowledge  of  many  languages,  and 
he  made  humble  apologies  in  cigar-maker's  Cuban.  But 
the  girl  retreated  from  him  still,  though  her  wild  eyes 
showed  that  she  understood. 

"Dem  Oriental  vomens  is  sehr  shy,"  said  Mrs.  Rosen- 
zweig.    "She  belongs  by  femmily  name  Abravaya." 

A  yoimg  man  came  eel-like  through  the  crowd  now. 
He  was  of  fair  hair  and  skin,  rather  Hibernian  than 
Hebraic;  at  least  he  resembled  those  Irish  who  resemble 
the  Spanish.  To  him  the  young  girl  ran  for  refuge.  What 
she  told  him  angered  him  and  he  glared  at  Hallard. 

Hallard  was  used  to  being  glared  at.  He  began  again 
m  laborious  Spanish.  The  young  man  answered  in 
English. 

I  9 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"For  why  you  pool  my  wife  by  the  hair,  htih?  You 
theenk  she  is  know  thees  man?  No!  She  knows  naw- 
body.     She  is  my  wife." 

Hallard  tried  to  explain.  But  he  did  not  confess  that 
he  had  purloined  a  lock  of  hair,  and  for  no  sentimental 
reasons.  He  was  of  the  school  of  newspaperdom  that 
has  tisurped  the  fimctions  of  the  police  and  the  detective 
bureaus  and  has  solved  some  of  the  mysteries  that  have 
baffled  the  regular  departments. 

The  poUce  and  the  public  are  afraid  of  these  reporters, 
for  they  go  armed  with  the  terrible  weapons  of  publicity. 
They  can  make  a  patrolman  famous  or  an  inspector 
ridiculous.  They  advance  a  guess  and  call  it  a  clue. 
In  place  of  hiding  what  they  know  they  advertise  their 
theories  as  facts,  and  thus  question  all  their  readers.  In 
a  day  they  can  reveal  portraits  and  possibilities  to  mill- 
ions of  spectators,  among  whom  sometimes  some  one  is 
reminded  of  an  incident  that  furnishes  a  bit  of  further 
information.  And  so  they  set  upon  the  trail  of  the  guilty 
a  pack  of  cotmtless  sleuths. 

Hallard,  staring  down  at  the  reliques  of  Perry  Merithew, 
wondered  what  extraordinary  reason  had  brought  this 
fashionable  gentleman  to  this  most  impolite  place.  A 
woman  had  plainly  been  with  him  at  the  last  moment. 
Apparently  there  had  been  a  struggle.  He  had  clutched 
her  by  the  hair.  She  had  killed  him,  cut  herself  free,  and 
fled. 

It  was  most  probable  that  she  belonged  in  this  neighbor- 
hood. Otherwise  why  should  he  have  come  here  ?  Surely, 
if  she  belonged  up-town,  she  woiild  never  have  selected 
this  hideous  trysting-place.  Such  a  tragedy  involving 
two  paupers  would  be  worth  hardly  a  stickful  of  type; 
involving  a  man  like  Merithew,  it  meant  columns  upon 
colimms,  whether  the  missing  woman  were  rich  or  poor. 
Hallard  could  hardly  decide  which  he  wanted  her  to  be. 

He  had  foimd  nearly  everything  possible  to  human 
crime,  and  infinite  variety  in  human  folly.     He  had  also 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

learned  that  wickedness  ustially  does  what  charity  is 
advised  to  do — ^it  begins  at  home. 

The  most  natural  thing  to  suppose  was  that  Merithew 
had  come  here  on  some  insane  exctirsion  of  his  jaded 
fancy  to  meet  the  woman  whose  hair  he  held.  The  heat 
of  the  night  must  have  driven  them  to  the  roof  as  it  had 
driven  himdreds  of  thousands  of  people  from  the  ovens 
indoors. 

Some  quarrel  had  arisen;  the  woman  had  knifed  Meri- 
thew, or  shot  him,  or  somehow  executed  him.  In  these 
times  when  tires  are  incessantly  exploding,  a  soimd  like  a 
pistol-shot  attracts  no  attention  at  all.  In  this  region 
even  the  cry  of  "Police!"  usually  fails  to  bring  any  one 
in  haste,  least  of  all  a  policeman.  So  the  woman  killed 
Merithew,  and  nobody,  except  possibly  some  accomplice, 
paid  any  heed.  Hallard  could  imagine  what  supreme 
horror  must  have  thrilled  that  woman  as  she  sawed  her 
hair  free  from  the  clutch  of  that  indomitable  tenacity, 
leaving  these  clues  behind  for  those  grim  hands  to  proffer 
posthumously.  Who  was  she?  Whence  come?  Whither 
a  fugitive? 

If  the  hair  had  been  black  it  would  have  been  of  small 
help  in  this  region  where  bnmettes  moved  about  in 
throngs.  But  hair  of  a  reddish  persuasion  was  con- 
spicuously rare  here. 

Hallard  cast  about  for  further  data.  He  saw  a  few 
hair-pins  and  picked  them  up,  but  the  policemen  took 
them  away  from  him,  all  but  one,  which  he  palmed. 

It  was  his  desire  to  beat  the  police  to  the  solution — for 
the  glory  of  his  paper.  His  own  ingenuity  woiild  remain 
anonymous.  His  work  would  be  so  impersonal  that  the 
highest  flight  of  egotism  would  be  an  occasional  aUusion 
to  himself  as  "a  reporter  of  the  Gazette." 

Meanwhile  Raebum  had  returned  without  discoveries; 
he  began  to  eavesdrop  on  the  police  and  the  detectives, 
who  were  coming  up  with  speed  and  making  examinations, 
casting  about  for  finger-prints  and   foot-prints,   taking 

II 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

measiironents  and  snapshots,  and  hunting  with  micro 
scopes.  Hallard  was  resolving  to  leave  the  scene  to  the 
other  reporters  and  the  press  photographers.  The 
Gazette  squad  was  already  on  the  way,  according  to 
Hermann,  who  returned  with  commercial  promptitude. 

Hallard  decided  to  search  the  neighborhood.  Failing 
there,  he  would  ransack  Merithew's  own  past. 

The  clamor  of  the  gong  of  an  ambulance  came  up  from 
the  street  below  faintly,  like  a  passing  bell.  The  surgeon, 
when  he  arrived,  would  tell  how  Merithew  died,  and  how 
long  ago.  Meanwhile  Hallard  made  a  last  hasty  survey 
of  the  roof.  It  was  so  broken  up  with  tanks  and  chimneys 
and  the  skylights  that  there  was  little  free  room.  A  wall 
built  up  around  the  ledge  cut  off  the  view  of  the  surround- 
ing roofs.  Hallard  foimd  an  old  box  lying  against  the 
wall  near  a  chimney.  He  set  it  up  and  stood  on  it  while 
he  peered  over. 

The  view  was  too  familiar  to  excite  his  wonder.  It 
was  the  enormous  multiplication  of  poverty,  a  festival  of 
squalor.  Everywhere  there  were  clothes-lines  with  their 
drooping  pennants  of  defeat — they  filled  the  fire-escapes. 
On  the  window-sills  the  bedclothes  hung  or  pillows  were 
heaped,  or  mattresses;  or  the  denizens  leaned  out,  gazing 
into  the  busy  streets. 

The  very  effort  toward  cleanliness  was  the  emphasis 
of  its  absence.  Poor  people's  underclothes!  washed 
without  pride  by  unpaid  wives  disgusted  at  their  fabrics 
and  hating  their  tasks — where  coiild  one  find  a  less 
pleasant  sight? 

The  buildings  were  new  from  the  Old  World  ideal  for 
slums,  but  they  were  forlorn  enough  for  New  York. 
Many  of  them  had  ornamental  cornices,  but  they  ac- 
centuated the  pauperdom  like  second-hand  finery.  Here 
and  there,  as  if  a  marble  stele  had  been  set  up  in  a  junk- 
heap,  rose  some  great,  beautiful  school  btiilding  or  hospital. 

From  this  eyrie  one  could  see  many  roofs,  but  could  be 
seen  from  few.    There  had  probably  been  no  witnesses  to 

12 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

the  deed.  But  how  had  a  man  dressed  as  well  as  Merithe\c 
always  was  entered  such  a  place  without  incurring  notice? 
How  had  the  guilty  woman  slipped  away  unheeded? 

As  Hallard  slid  his  fingers  along  the  top  of  the  wall,  they 
fell  on  something.  Without  looking  at  it  or  starting  he 
closed  his  palm  upon  it.  He  did  not  intend  to  share  his 
discoveries  with  the  detectives.  His  hand  studied  its 
trove.  Then,  as  if  he  were  looking  down  into  the  street, 
he  bent  his  head  and  examined  what  he  had  foimd. 
It  was  a  hat-pin  of  unusual  design,  a  gold  claw  gripping 
a  large  amethyst.  Hallard  pressed  it  into  the  lining  of  his 
coat  and  dropped  down  from  the  box,  shaking  his  head  with 
ostentatious  disappointment. 

A  young  surgeon  appeared  now  and  busied  himself  with 
the  cadaver.  He  announced  first  that  the  death  must 
have  occurred  many  hours  before.  There  was  a  cut  on 
one  palm.  There  was  a  wound  in  the  top  of  the  head 
that  might  have  been  made  with  a  blunt -edged  instru- 
ment, as  a  brick,  the  butt  of  a  revolver,  a  blackjack,  or 
the  common  gas-pipe  of  footpad  commerce.  There  was 
no  bullet  or  knife  or  needle  wound  upon  the  body.  It 
was  impossible  to  tell  without  more  thorough  examina- 
tion. That  must  wait  till  permission  was  received  to  re- 
move the  body. 

The  identity  of  the  vanished  woman  remained  to  be 
solved.  The  detectives  hoped  to  gain  some  ground  in  her 
pursmt  by  the  chemical  and  microscopical  study  of  the 
structure  of  her  hair.  They  were  already  in  dispute  as 
to  its  color.  One  said  "red,"  one  said  "auburn,"  one 
said  "golden."  Hallard  mentioned  his  own  opinion  and 
pointed  out  the  value  of  "  copper-haired."  It  was  a  good 
word,  and  thereafter  the  police  and  everybody  else  used 
it.  The  unknown  was  invariably  referred  to  as  "the 
copper-haired  woman." 

Meanwhile  the  police  had  herded  the  crowd  from  the 
roof.  The  flat-.^ooted,  thick-headed  guardians  of  the 
peace  were  trying  to  look  superhimianly  intelligent  as 

13 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

they  peered  and  pried.  Hallard  sneered  at  them  and 
left  them  to  their  perplexities. 

Hallard  resolved  to  interview  Mr.  Abravaya.  Perhaps 
his  red-headed  wife  had  a  red-headed  sister  or  some  rela- 
tive.    He  left  the  other  reporters  to  watch  the  police. 

What  they  might  find  or  pretend  to  find  would  be 
turned  into  the  general  fund  of  newspaper  information. 
Every  newspaper  had  long  held  ready  in  type  a  brief 
"obituary"  of  Merithew  and  an  envelope  of  clippings  con- 
cerning his  frivolities. 

Taking  care  of  the  dead  was  for  undertakers  and  news- 
paper cubs  or  journeymen.  The  things  that  Hallard 
wanted  to  know  were  the  things  that  some  Uving  woman 
was  terribly  eager  to  keep  secret. 


CHAPTER  III 

AS  Hallard  went  down  the  steps,  already  writing  his 
Jx.  story  on  the  tablets  of  his  memory,  he  pushed  his 
way  through  an  almost  soHd  agglutination  of  people. 
He  did  not  see  the  red-headed  woman.  She  had  dis- 
appeared with  her  husband. 

He  had  forgotten  her  name.  But  he  remembered  her 
confusion,  and  her  flight  was  worth  looking  into.  She 
might  have  guilty  knowledge,  if  not  guilt  itself.  He 
encoimtered  among  the  sheep-staring  faces  the  shiny 
black  eyes  of  little  Hermann  Rosenzweig,  and  Hermann 
escorted  him  to  the  door  of  the  Abravayas  and  evinced  a 
perfect  willingness  to  accept  another  fee  for  his  services. 

Hallard  paid  him,  and  knocked  at  the  door.  The 
young  man  with  the  Hibemo-Hebraic  features  appeared. 
Hallard  was  not  used  to  being  invited  in  or  kept  out. 
He  sauntered  forward,  and  Mr.  Abravaya  had  either  to 
close  the  door  in  his  face  or  be  walked  over.  The  former 
did  not  suit  his  cotirtesy  nor  the  latter  his  pride.  He 
stepped  back  and  Hallard  marched  into  a  room  that  was 
cleaner  than  he  had  expected.  There  were  a  few  little 
flowers  growing  bravely  in  tin  cans. 

The  red-headed  girl,  who  was  nursing  a  tiny  baby,  fled 
to  the  kitchen.  Mr.  Abravaya  drew  forward  a  chair  and 
bowed  Hallard  into  it  with  gracious  ceremony.  Then  he 
called  through  the  door  and  sat  down  on  the  bed,  waiting 
for  his  visitor  to  state  his  errand.  Hallard  knew  better 
than  to  begin  at  once  on  the  purpose  of  his  quest. 

"You  speak  English,  Mr. — Mr. — " 

"Abravaya,  Behor  Josef  Abravaya,  sir.     Yes,  I  spik 

IS 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Ermgleesh  pretty  good.  I  am  only  seex  mawnth  in  thees 
kantry,  but  I  spik  Enngleesh  pretty  good.  I  spik  seven 
language.  In  Constantinople,  where  I  am  come  from,  a 
man  must  spik  much  language." 

' '  You  come  from  Constantinople ? ' '  said  Hallard.  "But 
they  told  me  you  were  Spanish." 

"Four  —  five  hondred  years  ago  my  pipple  are  in 
Spain,  but  they  are  so  pairsecute  they  go  by  Toorkey. 
They  spik  the  Spanish — a  kind  of  Spanish — Ladino  we 
call  him — or  Spaniolisch.  My  pipple  are  happy  in 
Toorkey.  The  Toork  he  is  nicer  to  our  pipple  as  the 
Chreestians,  but  not  very  nice,  too.  Then  comes  thees 
war  with  Greece  and  Boolgaria.  All  the  men  must  be 
soldiers.  I  do  not  weesh  to  be  soldier  for  the  Sooltan 
who  geeves  us  no  leeberty.  To  fight  for  leeberty  is  all 
right — if  I  get  myself  killed,  my  brawther  he  get  what  I 
fight  for.  But  to  fight  and  get  killed  for  nawthing  is  no 
good,  huh?  Let  the  Sooltan  get  killed  by  himself.  In 
America  is  different.  Here  everything  is  free — ^nearly  free. 
I  should  fight  for  America  with  the  greatest  of  pleesure. 
So  I  come  by  New  York,  and  many  of  our  Ladino  pipple. 
Ten — fourteen  t'ousand  of  us  is  come  in  las'  two  years." 

"That's  very  interesting,"  said  Hallard  without  in- 
terest.    "And  does  your  wife  speak  English,  too?" 

"No — ^my  wife  spik  only  the  Ladino.  She  onderstands 
not  even  the  Yiddish.  She  knows  hardly  anybody  here. 
We  Oriental  Jews  are  a  separated  pipple  among  our  own 
pipple." 

The  red-heaaed  woman  entered  now  from  the  kitchen. 
She  had  quieted  the  baby  somehow  and  she  carried  in  its 
stead  a  little  tray  with  two  small  cups  of  almost  solid 
black  coffee  and  a  dish  of  pasties. 

"  My  wife,"  was  Mr.  Abravaya's  introduction.  "Sarah, 
thees  is  Mr. — Mr. — " 

"Hallard,"  said  Hallard,  rising  and  bowing. 

Sarah  hardly  nodded 'and  did  not  raise  her  eyes.  She 
thrust  the  tray  forward  meekly. 

i6 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Abravaya  waved  the  coffee  and  baklava  toward  Hallard 
with  a  gesture  of  Arabian  hospitality.  He  urged  the 
sweets  upon  him.  This  room  was  his  tent,  even  though  it 
was  pitched  four  flights  in  air.  Hallard  was  his  guest, 
though  he  had  forced  his  way  in.  Hallard  had  a  contempt 
for  formalities,  but  he  imitated  them  now  as  graciously  as 
he  could.  He  sipped  the  syrupy  wet  dust  of  the  coffee  and 
made  a  pretense  of  munching  the  baklava.  He  would 
have  preferred  a  pretzel  and  a  glass  of  beer. 

He  wanted  to  question  the  woman,  but  his  Spanish  was 
cumbersome,  and  after  he  had  emptied  his  cup  and  de- 
clined another  she  retreated  to  a  comer  and  sat  with  her 
heels  caught  up  under  her,  in  harem  fashion. 

So  Hallard  questioned  Abravaya  adroitly,  commenting 
on  the  unfortunate  discovery  on  the  roof.  It  seemed 
wiser  to  him  to  pretend  that  he  thought  it  an  accident. 
He  concealed  the  fact  that  he  was  a  reporter.  He  apolo- 
gized for  the  liberty  he  took  with  Mrs.  Abravaya's  hair 
and  soon  had  her  husband  laughing  at  her  extraordinary 
display  of  it  on  the  roof.  Sarah  did  not  laugh.  She  had 
inherited  something  of  the  Turkish  belief  that  while  it  is 
almost  unpardonable  for  a  woman  to  expose  her  face  to  a 
stranger,  it  is  quite  unpardonable  to  let  her  hair  be  seen. 
Only  a  suspicion  of  murder  with  intrigue  had  led  her  to 
violate  that  sanctity.     It  was  not  a  matter  of  jest. 

Hallard  was  soon  convinced  that  she  had  no  part  in  the 
affair.  He  asked  if  they  had  not  heard  some  noise  on  the 
roof  during  the  night.  Had  they  not  visited  the  roof  them- 
selves to  escape  from  the  heat? 

Abravaya  explained  that  the  roof  was  too  cut  up  to 
serve  as  a  dormitory.  It  was  doubly  inclosed  by  its  own 
walls  and  by  the  walls  of  the  sorroimding  tenements. 
No  one  slept  there  of  nights.  He  himself  and  his  wife 
had  spent  the  night  on  the  fish-block  of  a  small  shop  on 
Orchard  Street. 

Then,  Hallard  suggested,  they  ought  to  have  noticed 
the  arrival  of  Merithew.     He  was  a  man  whose  costume 

17 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

excited  attention  on  Fifth  Avenue;  how  not  on  Orchard 
Street?  Abravaya  described  the  crowded  state  of  the 
street  at  night.  So  many  people  came  and  went,  there 
was  such  a  stir  of  restless  wretches  shifting  their  places 
or  their  positions,  that  heavy  eyes  paid  little  heed  to 
what  shadowy  figures  slunk  about. 

An  automobile  would  have  attracted  instant  notice. 
No  car  or  carriage  had  visited  the  street. 

It  occurred  to  Hallard  that  Merithew  himself  would 
probably  have  done  what  he  could  to  avoid  attention  in 
this  place.  But  how  could  he  have  foimd  his  way  thither 
without  asking  questions?  Perhaps,  after  all,  the  woman 
had  brought  him — had  guided  him,  perhaps,  on  some 
made-up  errand  in  order  that  she  might  rob  him.  But 
robbery  might  not  have  been  the  sole  motive.  Black- 
mail might  have  been  the  object — or  revenge,  a  woman's 
revenge  with  a  pretense  of  robbery  to  disguise  the  crime. 
This  theory  appealed  to  Hallard;  it  made  good  news- 
paper material.  He  was  going  to  "sling  himself"  in  a 
description  of  the  emotions  the  woman  of  mystery  felt 
when  she  felt  the  hideous  closing  of  those  fingers  on  her 
hair. 

Always  he  came  back  to  that  hair.  And  now  he  felt 
enough  at  home  to  ask  if  his  host  knew  any  neighbor  whose 
tresses  were  of  that  hue.  Abravaya  was  sure  that  his 
wife  was  the  only  possessor  of  such  a  treasure.  He  spoke 
to  her.     He  translated  her  answer: 

"Sarah,  my  wife,  says  she  did  seen  no  hair  like  those 
since  Maryla  Sokalska  is  move  away." 

"Maryla  Sokalska?"  Hallard  answered,  inscribing  the 
name  on  his  memory.  "When  did  she  move?  Where? 
Why?" 

Abravaya  translated  his  English  into  Ladino,  and 
Sarah's  answer  into  English: 

"Sarah,  my  wife,  says  it  is  not  of  her  business.  She  saw 
her  go.  She  cried.  Mees  Sokalska  her  father  is  Meesteh 
Sokalski  he  live  in  thees  buildink." 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Hallard  talked  of  other  things,  then  made  his  exit 
with  an  effort  at  ceremonial. 

The  narrow,  dark  and  dingy  halls  were  still  packed. 
Little  Hermann  was  not  far  away.  He  took  pride  and 
profit  from  leading  Hallard  down  a  flight  of  stairs  to  the 
door  of  the  Sokalskis. 

Hallard  knocked,  and  a  venerable  man  with  the  beard 
of  a  prophet  and  the  eyes  of  a  Lear  opened  the  door.  He 
bowed  when  Hallard  named  him.  Inside  the  room  there 
were  sewing-machines  whirring.     Hallard  asked: 

"Does  Miss  Maryla  Sokalska  live  here?" 

The  old  man's  questioning  eyes  filled  with  a  tragic  fire 
like  Ezekiel's.  His  lean  hand  went  into  his  beard.  He 
shook  his  head.  The  sewing-machines  stopped  as  if  they, 
too,  were  listening. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  she  lives?"  Hallard  went  on. 

The  ancient  closed  his  eyes  and  answered,  huskily: 

"Ve  know  her  not.  To  us — she  is — dett.  Ve  have 
made  a  moumink  for  seven  days  in  our  ho'se.  See,  I  have 
rendet  my  garmends."  He  pointed  to  the  lapels  of  his 
coat.     They  were  slashed.     "She  is  livink  no  longair." 

Hallard  had  heard  that  some  of  the  orthodox  Jews,  in 
the  rare  instances  where  their  daughters  brought  disgrace 
upon  the  home,  turned  them  forth  into  the  wilderness 
like  scapegoats,  and  counted  them  as  buried. 

Another  man  might  have  lifted  his  hat  and  turned 
away  in  respect  of  such  misery,  but  Hallard's  business 
was  the  publication  of  the  things  that  break  the  hearts  and 
the  prides  of  families.     He  spoke  with  much  deference: 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  if — if  your  daughter  knew  a 
Mr.  Merithew?" 

The  name  seemed  to  have  the  effect  of  a  poison  in  the 
old  man's  ears.  His  grief  turned  to  Mosaic  hatred.  He 
gnashed  his  teeth.  His  beard  wagged  with  fury.  He 
made  haste  to  close  the  door. 

Hallard  tapped;    it  was  not  opened.     He  tried  the 

^9 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

knob;  it  was  locked.    He  called  through;  there  was  no 
answer. 

Hallard  used  to  say,  "The  only  thing  that  gives  me  the 
nerve  to  ask  people  some  of  the  questions  I  do  is  the  fact 
that  they  haven't  got  self-respect  enough  to  kick  me  out." 

Hallard  did  not  blush  at  the  rebuff  he  had  had.  He 
rather  respected  the  old  man  for  his  insult.  But  he  did 
not  reHnquish  his  interest  in  the  affair.  His  eyes  were 
kindled  with  encouragement.  In  the  tenement  where 
Perry  Merithew  was  found  he  had  discovered  a  family  to 
whom  the  name  of  Perry  Merithew  was  an  abomination. 
That  was  both  news  and  clues  in  good  measure. 

His  next  step  must  be  the  finding  of  Maryla  Sokalska. 
He  was  sure  that  he  was  a  lap  or  two  ahead  of  the  detec- 
tives or  the  other  reporters.  So  many  roads  to  take,  so 
many  things  to  do.  occurred  to  his  brain,  that  he  wished 
he  were  a  hundred  men  instead  of  hardly  more  than  one. 

Before  he  took  up  his  new  path  he  hurried  over  to  the 
Bowery.  At  a  comer  news-stand  the  dealer  was  just 
opening  the  bundles  of  the  latest  extras.  Hallard  bought 
them  all.  None  of  them  had  a  word  of  Merithew.  Up 
the  wide  avenue  came  a  low,  rakish  motor-truck  at 
furious  speed.  It  was  a  Gazette  delivery-car.  The  men, 
knee-deep  in  bundles,  threw  one  off  to  the  dealer. 

Hallard  cut  the  string  himself,  and  slapped  the  paper 
open.  Across  the  top  of  the  front  page  in  letters  two 
inches  tall  and  as  red  as  gore  was  the  legend: 

MERSTHEW   MURDERED 

In  black  letters  only  an  inch  tall  and  dwindling  line  by  line, 
he  read : 

COPPER. HAI  RED   BEAUTY 

SLAYS     SOCIETY'S     PET 

BODY    OF    "MERRY     PERRY"   MERITHEW 

MULTIMILLIONAIRE    FOUND 

ON     SLUM     ROOF 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

The  Gazette's  resourceful  city  editor,  Mr.  Ulery,  had 
turned  up  the  matrix  of  a  large  portrait  of  Merry  Perry 
in  a  costume  he  had  worn  at  a  famous  f^te.  Perry  had 
appeared  as  a  Sultan,  to  the  delight  and  assistance  of  the 
wits.  Mr.  Ulery  had  ordered  the  material  of  the  obituary 
department  into  linotype  while  the  block  letters  of  the 
head-lines  were  being  set  up.  To  make  room  for  the 
sensation  he  had  thrown  out  bodily  three  or  four  items  of 
world-wide  importance.  Altogether  the  Gazette's  special 
extra  treated  Merithew  handsomely. 

Hallard  looked  at  the  extras  of  the  other  papers.  Not 
one  of  them  mentioned  Merithew.  They  were  full  of  the 
same  old  European  war  rumors.  Hallard  had  scored  a 
great  beat.  It  was  pleasant  to  work  for  a  city  editor  like 
Ulery  who  could  respond  to  the  spur  like  that.  It  was  a 
great  joke  on  the  other  papers.  They  would  have  to 
steal  their  news  from  the  Gazette  this  time.  To-morrow  the 
Gazette  would  crow  over  them  and  reproduce  photographs 
of  their  Meritbewless  head-lines. 

Hallard  hurried  to  a  drug-store  to  dictate  from  the 
telephone-booth  a  masterpiece  of  information.  Since 
Ulery  had  done  so  well  and  so  promptly  by  the  first  scant 
message,  what  would  he  not  do  when  he  learned  of  the  hair 
and  the  Sokalska  who  had  sinned  to  banishment  and  been 
mourned  as  dead?  Hallard  suggested  to  Ulery  a  nimiber 
of  more  prominent  names  that  might  be  linked  with 
Merithew's  and  advised  the  release  of  further  news- 
beagles  in  all  directions. 

He  and  the  city  editor  exchanged  exclamations  of 
rapture  over  the  nice  bluggy  nattire  of  the  event.  They 
were  artists  in  their  way  and  they  were  beginning  a  great 
fresco. 

If  a  citizen  of  the  Dark  Ages  could  be  wakened  from  his 
centtiries  of  sleep  he  would  marvel  somewhat  at  our  tall 
buildings — though  they  had  pretty  tall  buildings  then — 
but  he  would  wonder  more  at  our  enormous  improvement 
in  the  machinery  of  gossip. 

21 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

If  he  had  seen  the  brindled  Hallard  steal  into  a  little! 
closet  like  a  confessional,  and  by  whispering  into  a  small 
rubber  cup  summon  the  tormenting  imps  of  publicity  to 
their  tasks  and  set  free  the  roaring  dragons  of  the  presses, 
the  revenant  would  have  marveled  indeed.  But  he  would 
have  sworn  that  he  saw  horns  on  Hallard's  forehead;  he 
would  have  sniffed  brimstone,  and  he  woiild  have  crossed 
himself. 


CHAPTER  IV 

TO  find  Maryla  Sokalska  was  Hallard's  next  chore. 
He  was  about  to  plunge  back  into  the  region  where 
she  had  lived,  but  it  occurred  to  him  that  since  her 
father's  home  had  been  closed  against  her  she  would 
hardly  have  lingered  in  that  neighborhood. 

Hallard  could  not  imagine  why  she  should  have  brought 
Merithew  down  there,  even  to  rob  him.  But  motives  were 
not  his  affair:  they  were  important  to  God  and  the  juries, 
not  to  the  reporter.     His  traffic  was  in  deeds. 

Hallard  reasoned  that  the  best  place  to  begin  back- 
tracking Miss  Sokalska  was  from  the  latest  trail  of 
Mr.  Merithew. 

Perhaps  the  news  of  his  death  had  not  yet  broken  like 
a  thunderbolt  across  his  home.  The  Gazette  wagons,  with 
their  freight  of  sensation,  would  hardly  yet  have  reached 
so  far  north  as  the  granite  residence  on  Central  Park  East, 
where  the  "Seeing  New  York"  lecturers  always  mega- 
phoned their  pop-eyed  flocks: 

"On  your  right — the  handsome  residence  of  Mr. 
Parry  Marithoo,  the  famous  hone  vivong." 

Some  one  down-town  bujdng  the  Gazette  and  learning 
the  truth  might  have  telephoned  to  Mrs.  Merithew — 
but  perhaps  not  yet.  Some  one  certainly  would  at  any 
moment.  Hallaid  looked  for  the  name  in  the  telephone- 
book.  It  was  not  given  there.  He  remembered  that  it 
was  a  private  wire  and  not  listed.  Once  before  he  had 
noted  it  in  his  memorandum-book.  He  found  it  there 
and  dropped  another  nickel  in  the  slot.    When  the  con- 

23 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

nection  was  made  he  asked  for  Mr.  Merithew.    A  man's 
voice  answered: 

"He's  not  a  tome,  sir." 

There  was  a  butleresque  intonation  in  the  answer  and 
no  indication  of  tragedy. 

Hallard  asked  for  Mrs.  Merithew,  and  managed  to  elicit 
a  hint  that  she  was  probably  at  a  committee  meeting  in 
the  Charities  Building. 

Hallard  said:  "Well,  can't  you  tell  me  where  I'll  find 
Perry — er,  Mr.  Merithew?     It's  awfully  important." 

The  apparent  slip  into  the  first  name  was  as  effective 
with  the  butler  as  a  letter  of  introduction.  He  answered : 
"Sorry,  sir,  I  can't  say.  But  if  you  please  to  keep  the 
line  a  moment  I'll  put  you  through  to  his  man." 

The  clutter  of  the  telephone  evoked  another  voice,  to 
which  the  butler's  voice  said:  "A  friend  of  the  master's 
is  inquiring  where  he  could  be  found.     It's  important." 

Then  the  valet's  voice,  full  of  hand-rubbing  obsequious- 
ness: 

"I've  had  no  word  from  him  since  yesterday,  seh.  He 
is  not  supposed  to  be  in  town  during  the  hot  weather,  you 
know.  I  ran  in  myself  only  by  accident.  He  may  have 
stopped  aboard  some  friend's  yacht  last  night,  or  at  the 
Piping  Rock  Club,  perhaps.  He's  not  likely  to  dine  a  tome, 
either,  I  believe.     Any  message,  seh?" 

Hallard  did  not  tell  the  valet  that  Mr.  Merithew  would 
not  dine  at  home,  and  probably  would  not  sup  in  paradise. 
He  lowered  his  voice  confidentially: 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  I'm  Mr.  Brown,  the  jeweler. 
Mr.  Merithew  ordered  me  to  make  a  bracelet  for — for 
Miss  Maryla  Sokalska,  you  know.  I  was  to  deliver  it  to 
her.  It's  ready,  but  I've  lost  the  address  he  gave  me. 
Where  can  I  find  her?" 

The  valet's  gasp  was  audible:  "Miss  Sokalska,  seh? 
I  didn't  know  as  we  had  seen  'ide  nor  'air  of  her  almost 
a  year  past.  I  haven't  an  idea  of  her  whereabouts,  seh,  if 
she  has  any." 

24 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

This  was  discouraging.  Hallard  hung  up  the  receiver 
and  hurried  from  the  booth  to  the  Subway  station  at 
Bleecker  Street.  Neariy  everybody  on  the  up-town  train 
was  reading  the  Gazette's  exclusive  story.  Persons  who 
had  bought  other  papers  were  more  or  less  openly  filching 
the  news  from  those  who  held  Gazettes  in  their  hands. 
Some  of  the  owners  of  Gazettes  were  jealously  endeavoring 
to  fold  up  their  treasure  from  the  public  eye.  Kindlier 
owners  were  actually  waiting  till  those  over-shoulder  had 
finished  before  they  turned  the  page. 

Thus  character  makes  itself  known  incessantly — in- 
finitesimally.  People's  souls  fairly  perspire  from  them. 
The  miser  picks  up  the  discarded  newspaper  and  hugs  it 
with  automatic  stinginess,  while  the  spendthrift  scatters 
his  extra  to  the  winds.  The  snooper  neglects  his  own 
comic  page  to  read  his  neighbor's  editorial;  the  snob 
closes  his  eyes  against  the  head-lines  the  strap-hanger  rubs 
against  his  very  nose. 

Hallard  gloated  upon  the  success  of  his  story  with  the 
pride  of  an  author  who  sees  his  book  in  many  hands.  He 
promised  the  public  an  exciting  serial  in  daily  instalments. 

He  left  the  train  at  Twenty-third  Street  and  hastened 
round  the  comer  to  the  United  Charities  Building.  Here 
he  saw  that  a  handsome  limousine  was  waiting  at  the 
curb.  A  footman  stood  by  the  door  with  a  linen  lap-robe 
folded  over  his  arm.  He  was  democratic  enough  to  be 
exchanging  badinage  out  of  the  side  of  his  mouth  with  the 
shabby  driver  of  a  shabbier  taxicab  drawn  up  aft  of  the 
limousine. 

Suddenly  the  footman  motioned  the  taxi-man  to  silence 
and  came  to  attention.  Two  women  appeared.  Hallard 
at  once  recognized  the  elder  of  them  as  Mrs.  Merithew. 
He  observed  at  once  that  her  hair  was  devoid  of  auburn. 
She  was  laughing  delightedly  over  something.  Plainly 
she  knew  nothing  of  her  husband's  fate.  Then  he  noted 
that  the  young  woman  with  Mrs.  Merithew  had  copper- 
colored    hair.     Could    she    have    been    the —    Hallard 

25 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

checked  his  suspicion  instantly,  for  he  recognized  her  as 
Muriel  Schuyler,  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  wealthiest 
men  in  town. 

Muriel  Schuyler  stood  high  among  Hallard's  few  ad- 
mirations, especially  among  the  rich.  She  was  young  and 
handsome  and  full  of  vivacity,  a  daring  horsewoman,  a 
tireless  dancer,  opera-goer,  and  frequenter  of  the  theaters, 
yet  she  was  to  be  found  often  among  the  poor.  Hallard 
had  seen  her  once  or  twice  moving  through  the  slums  like 
a  saint  of  all  help. 

This  renewed  his  suspicion.  Since  she  knew  the  East 
Side  so  well  she  might  have  been  there  with  Merithew. 
Again  he  banished  the  thought,  and  with  disgust.  He 
must  not  let  himself  get  so  low  as  to  practise  his  cynicism 
on  so  good  a  girl  as  Muriel  Schuyler.  Had  she  not  just 
come  from  a  charity  meeting?  Was  she  not  in  the  com- 
pany of  the  dead  man's  wife? 

Yet  she  was  evidently  agitated.  But  the  committee 
meeting  may  have  gone  wrong.  Her  excitement  might  be 
merely  due  to  her  struggle  with  Mrs.  Merithew,  who  was 
urging  her  to  ride  home  in  the  smart  Merithew  limousine 
instead  of  the  dingy  taxicab  that  Miss  Schuyler  had  picked 
up  somewhere.  Miss  Schuyler  was  used  to  going  about 
afoot  or  in  taxies,  since  she  went  often  in  places  where  her 
father's  motors  would  be  too  conspicuous. 

Hallard  watched  the  brief  duel  of  the  sort  women  in- 
dulge in  when  it  comes  to  paying  for  the  car-fare  or  the 
tea  or  the  matinee  tickets.  Mrs.  Merithew  won  at  last. 
Miss  Schuyler  sighed,  "Oh,  all  right!"  and  went  to  dis- 
miss the  taxi-driver.  She  paid  him  liberally  enough  to 
get  his  hat  off  his  head  and  profuse  thanks  from  his  cynical 
lips,  but  there  was  a  look  of  fond  regret  in  his  eyes  at 
losing  her,  and  the  smile  he  gave  her  was  more  than 
commercial. 

Before  the  footman  could  close  the  door  of  the  limoiisine 
upon  Miss  Schuyler  and  her  triimiphant  hostess  HallaH 
pressed  forward,  lifting  his  hat: 

26 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Merithew!" 

"Yes." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  can  you" — he  hardly  hesitated 
before  he  asked  the  ghoulish  question — "can  you  tell  me 
where  I  cotild  find  your  husband?     It's  very  important." 

"My  husband  ? ' '  She  smiled  without  mirth ;  then  tinned 
and  murmiired  to  Miss  Schuyler,  "A  fimny  question  to 
ask  me!"  She  saw  that  Hallard  had  overheard,  and 
she  bit  her  hasty  lips  in  regret.  She  tried  to  save  the  day 
by  asking,  "Have  you  tried  his  office?" 

Perry's  office  had  been  a  joke.  It  was  the  one  place  he 
could  never  be  found.  It  was  merely  a  bureau  where  a 
few  clerks  attended  to  the  details  of  the  estates  he  had 
inherited,  kept  his  coupons  shorn,  and  provided  him  with 
spending-money. 

Hallard  said  that  Merithew  was  not  at  his  office.  Mrs. 
Merithew  next  suggested: 

"Did  you  try  the  Yadit  Club  or  the  Brook  or  the 
Racquet  or — " 

Hallard  nodded  to  each. 

She  confessed  her  ignorance:  "He's  not  often  in  town 
at  this  time  of  the  year." 

"He  was  in  town  last  night,"  Hallard  persisted. 

"Then  you  know  more  than  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Merithew, 
a  trifle  harshly,  and  nodded  to  the  footman,  who  closed  the 
door  in  spite  of  Hallard,  and  trotted  roimd  to  his  place 
by  the  chauffeur.  The  car  moved  forward,  and  Hallard 
followed  to  Fourth  Avenue,  staring  after  it  with  a  relapse  to 
pity.     He  almost  spoke  his  thought  aloud: 

"Poor  woman,  a  pretty  home  she's  got  to  go  to !" 

He  was  glad  that  Muriel  Schuyler  would  be  with  her  at 
the  crash  of  the  news. 

Merithew  had  not  been  a  good  husband,  as  everybody 
knew.  These  merry  fellows  abroad  are  apt  to  be  dis- 
tressing enough  at  home.  Mrs.  Merithew  had  worn  a 
mask  of  complacency  over  a  mien  of  despair.     She  did  not 

27 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

believe  in  any  other  divorce  than  the  sort  that  death  had 
already  given  her  without  warning  or  mercy.  She  had 
shunned  the  thought  of  releasing  herself,  for  fear  of  the 
scandal.  And  now  the  greater  scandal  was  to  be  her 
endless  alimony. 

Hallard  remembered  that  occasional  rumors  had  blown 
through  newspaper  offices,  whispering  that  she  was  going 
to  break  with  Perry  after  all.  Most  recently  the  core- 
spondent-elect had  been  a  Miss — or  was  it  Mrs.  ? — Aphra 
Shaler. 

Aphra  Shaler  had  been  the  latest  to  waste  Merithew's 
time  and  himself.  Hallard  wondered  why  he  had  not 
thought  of  her  at  once.  He  wondered  if  she  did  not  have 
copper-colored  hair.  He  wondered  where  to  find  her. 
He  could  learn  by  telephoning  from  the  comer  drug-store. 

By  the  time  he  reached  Twenty-third  Street  he  had 
caught  up  with  the  Merithew  limousine,  which  had  been 
halted  by  a  cross-town  street-car.  He  felt  an  impulse  to 
run  and  ask  Mrs.  Merithew  if  she  knew  where  her  rival 
lived  and  what  the  color  of  her  hair  might  be.  It  would 
have  bsen  a  brutal  question  to  put  to  her,  but  Hallard 
was  willing  to  ask  anybody  about  anything. 

At  that  moment,  however,  the  street  was  invaded  by 
one  of  those  bellowing  herds  of  news-bulls  that  run  amuck 
now  and  then,  usually  without  the  excuse  of  important 
news.  One  of  them  charged  on  the  Merithew  limousine, 
waving  an  inarticulate  "Huxtry!  wuxtry!  All  about 
hor'ble  murrurr!" 

Hallard  stood  fast  to  see  how  Mrs.  Merithew  would 
take  the  shock.  But  she  had  been  fooled  too  often  by 
chese  swindlers  to  pay  them  any  heed.  She  did  not  even 
glance  at  th3  man  who  waved  the  sheet  of  press-damp 
paper  on  which  her  name  was  printed  in  red.  The  police- 
man whistled.  Her  car  moved  on.  She  was  spared  at 
least  the  catastrophe  of  learning  publicly  what  ruin  had 
befallen  her  romance. 

For  her  marriage  had  been  a  romance,  begun  in  her 

2S 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

youth,  when  her  girlhood  dream  came  true  and  she  cap- 
tured "Merry  Perry,"  the  young,  the  handsome,  the  ridi, 
the  witty,  the  fascinating  gallant. 

She  had  been  the  envy  of  other  women  who  coveted 
her  treasure.  And  a  treasiire  he  had  been  for  a  full 
honeymoon.  He  had  revealed  the  passionate  devotion 
and  the  irresponsible  fiickerings  of  a  bright  bird.  Then 
he  had  wavered  and  flown  farther  and  farther.  There 
were  heartaches  and  rapturous  flights  back  home,  flights 
abroad  together,  hunting  -  parties,  yacht  solitudes,  and 
yacht  festivals.  He  was  for  ever  in  search  of  entertain- 
ment, but  he  found  it  more  and  more  away  from  her.  Her 
heart  did  not  so  much  break  as  it  filled  with  infinite  Httle 
breaks  like  Satsimia  ware. 

She  got  tised  to  heartbreaks,  as  people  do,  and  sought 
for  diversion  where  she  could  find  it.  Like  a  queen  whose 
ro3'al  consort  neglects  her  for  a  Du  Barry  or  many  of  them, 
she  established  a  little  court  of  her  own  and  conducted  a 
home  where  respectability  and  brilliance  weie  pretty  well 
combined.  In  that  home  their  son.  Perry  Merithew  II., 
was  reared,  knowing  little  of  his  father,  for  Perry  I. 
came  and  went  like  any  other  guest  who  was  asked  no 
questions  as  to  his  engagements. 

Eventually  the  Merithews  settled  down  to  that  sort 
of  unofficial  divorce  which  is  known  as  an  "under- 
standing." She  suffered  less  and  less  from  his  dereHc- 
tions.  She  would  have  said  that  nothing  he  could  do 
would  grieve  her  any  more  —  she  had  been  able  to 
laugh  at  the  thought  of  being  asked  where  he  was. 
When  she  bit  her  lip  it  was  not  over  her  tragedy,  but 
over  her  tactlessness. 

Now  she  was  to  learn  how  horribly  Perry  Merithew  could 
still  hurt  her.  All  the  rest  of  her  life  the  mention  of  her 
very  name  would  recall  the  disaster  of  his  end. 

Henceforth  the  very  home  she  was  hiurying  to  now 
would  be  one  of  the  sights  of  the  town.  The  grotesque 
"Seeing  New  York"  wagons  would  move  past  her  chateau 

29 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

in  Fifth  Avenue  slowly,  that  the  tourists  might  gape,  not 
at  its  architecture,  but  at  its  tradition. 

The  twanging  barkers  would  chant  their  sardonic 
serenades  under  her  windows,  crying,  one  after  another, 
day  after  day: 

"On  the  right,  I  draw  your  atten-shan  tew  the  pala-shel 
resi-dince  of  the  famis  vic-timm  of  the  greatist  marder 
myst'ree  of  the  day — Parry  Marithoo,  whewse  bodee 
was  foimd  on  the  rewf  of  a  tenemint  in  the  dregs  of  the 
slums.  This  tenemint  will  be  visited  on  this  and  every 
evening  by  our  speshil  touring-car  on  our  famis  tour  of  the 
harribill  slums,  inclooding  the  warld-famis  Bow-ree;  the 
haimts  of  Chinytown  with  its  harribill  opium-dens;  Mul- 
b'ry  Bend,  the  home  of  the  Black  Hand,  and  all  the  other 
tarribni  sights  of  the  night  life  of  this  great  and  wickid 
city.  Car  leaves  our  offis  at  twelve  o'clock  midnight: 
all  inclooded  for  the  modist  sum  of  one  dollar;  reducshun 
for  parties.  The  home  of  Parry  Marithoo,  ladies  and 
gentlemin,  now  inhabited  by  his  widow." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  thing  that  Hallard  was  most  ashamed  of  was  his 
failure  to  think  of  Aphra  Shaler  the  moment  he 
thought  of  Perry  Merithew. 

Aphra  was  one  of  the  unfaiHng  supply  of  wrong  wom- 
en that  every  small  town  produces  as  every  small  town 
produces  poets,  soldiers,  financiers,  and  statesmen  who 
smother  there  or  migrate  to  more  crowded  opportunities. 

When  Mr.  Gray  was  writing  his  Elegy  in  his  country 
churchyard  he  devoted  his  noble  regrets  solely  to  "the 
destiny  obscure"  of  the  good,  the  beautiful,  and  the 
great  who  had  suffered  oblivion:  the  gem  in  the  un- 
fathomed  cave,  the  flower  in  the  desert,  the  mute  inglorious 
Milton,  the  village  Hampden,  the  blood-guiltless  Cromwell. 

He  might  have  gone  farther  and  found  in  other  of  those 
"narrow  cells"  the  frustrated  fames  of  base  metals, 
poisonous  plants,  mute,  non-notorious  MessaHnas,  village 
Pompadours,  and  Lady  Emma  Hamiltons  of  limited 
guilt. 

The  great  cities  produce  enough  depravity  for  home 
consumption,  Heaven  knows;  but  they  attract  also  the 
ambitious  village  Delilahs  who  are  discontented  with  their 
local  Samsons,  who  scorn  the  farmer's  homely  vices,  the 
hamlet's  austere  duplicities,  and  the  shoddy  profligacies 
of  the  smaller  cities.  They  dream  of  larger  opportunities, 
where  talent  of  one  sort  or  another  can  prosper  to  mag- 
nificence. 

Aphra  Shaler  was  one  of  these.  The  daughter  of  an 
almost  too  virtuous  father  and  mother  in  a  four-comers 
of  Arcadian  innocence — of  appearance — she  had  turned 

31 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

her  father's  hair  white  and  got  herself  turned  out  of  tho 
house  before  she  was  sixteen. 

Then  she  obtained  a  place  in  a  small-town  factory 
where  her  smiles  manufacttired  domestic  earthquakes 
successively  for  laborers,  foremen,  the  superintendent^ 
and  one  of  the  partners.  She  foimd  this  place  too  cold 
for  her. 

The  advancing  Napoleonne  moved  next  to  a  middle- 
sized  city,  where  she  flourished  exceedingly  till  a  selfish 
and  inconsiderate  young  married  cashier  committed,  as 
it  were,  hara-kiri  on  her  door-step.  His  suicide  was  de- 
plored, but  when  it  was  found  that  he  had  been  also  an 
embezzler  and  had  almost  emptied  a  small  savings-bank 
at  Aphra's  feet,  the  heartless  public  made  the  place  too 
hot  for  her,  and  she  was  offered  a  choice  between  a  cozy- 
comer  in  jail  and  a  seat  in  the  next  train  out  of  town. 

Dazed  at  the  extent  of  hiiman  heartlessness,  she  drifted 
to  the  wicked  metropolis  as  the  tiny  prattling  brooklet 
lapses  to  the  cruel  sea.  In  New  York  she  found  the  com- 
petition fierce  and  the  industry  overcrowded,  but  her  gifts 
and  her  inalienable  look  of  innocence  helped  her  to  pros- 
per intermittently.  Her  extravagance  was  indeed  the 
only  check  on  her  commercial  importance.  She  took  the 
cash  and  let  the  credit  go — also  the  creditors.  This 
brought  her  in  occasional  conflict  with  a  class  of  collectors 
who  rejected  her  tears  and  promises  and  even  her  smiles 
as  non-negotiable.  Otherwise  her  success  in  her  chosen 
career  was  almost  perfect. 

We  are  always  capable  of  being  amazed  to  incredulity 
by  the  oldest  things  in  the  world,  such  as  the  fact  that 
sunsets  are  frequently  crimson,  that  violets  come  out 
of  the  black  ground  along  about  springtime,  that  lilies 
aspire  from  manure,  that  the  lightning  does  not  strike  the 
unjust,  and  that  women  can  be  very,  very  wicked  without 
losing  their  dimples,  their  ingenuous  stares,  their  infantile 
peaches-and-cream,  their  childish  laughter,  or  their  April 
tears. 

32 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Aphra  Shaler  was  of  the  type  whose  fresh  young  beauty 
lawyers  point  out  to  jurors  as  proof  of  innocence.  She 
had  thus  far  escaped  appearing  before  the  courts,  except 
in  one  or  two  battles  with  dressmakers  whom  she  did  not 
believe  in  paying.  But  she  was  constantly  on  trial  before 
the  men  whom  she  canvassed  while  making  them  think 
they  were  paying  suit  to  her. 

She  had  a  positive  genius  for  weeping  at  just  the  right 
time  to  just  the  right  extent  for  bedewing  her  cheeks 
without  inflaming  her  nose.  She  could  ensconce  herself 
in  the  best  corner  of  a  man's  heart — even  of  a  good  man's 
heart — like  a  little  worm  in  an  apple  blossom.  And 
gradually  by  feeding  on  his  noblest  motives  she  would 
eat  her  way  out  and  leave  a  rotten  hole  in  his  life. 

Warm-hearted  gentlemen  who  had  not  been  brutes 
enough  to  despise  a  distraught  girl  in  an  anguish  of  per- 
plexity found  themselves  preyed  upon  from  within  and 
then  disgraced  to  the  outer  eye.  Perhaps  it  hurts  even 
an  apple  to  be  gnawed  by  a  worm,  and  to  feel  itself  de- 
stroyed upon  the  bough,  and  to  drop  at  last  from  eminence 
to  the  slums  under  the  trees. 

The  world  is  full  of  Aphra  Shalers  and  always  has  been. 
They  are  the  loudest  bewailers  of  their  own  lost  virtues,  if 
one  can  be  said  to  lose  what  one  has  never  found.  They 
denounce  their  victims  as  their  conquerors — no  doubt  the 
harpies  scolded  the  very  bones  of  the  men  who  invaded 
the  sanctity  of  their  islands  just  because  the  harpies 
were  singing  a  few  little  innocent  songs  and  meaning  no 
harm. 

Aphra  Shaler  always  used  to  tell  her  next  victim  how 
her  last  victim  (who  in  the  telling  was  always  her  first 
victor)  had  won  his  way  to  her  very  soul  with  fiendish 
skill,  and  then  deserted  her  with  inconceivable  treachery. 
She  used  to  beat  her  sofa-pillow  with  a  fist  full  of  tear- 
soaked  handkerchief,  and  groan: 

"Oh,  it's  a  man's  world,  I  tell  you!  Nobody  cares 
what  a  man  does!    But  the  woman — one  step  and  she  is 

33 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

never  forgiven! — ^never!  The  man  escapes,  but  the 
woman  pays — and  pays — and  pays!" 

Thus  Aphra  would  declaim,  simply  clad  in  the  demurest 
costtime  obtainable  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  in  a  simply 
gorgeous  little  apartment  in  a  simply  immentionable 
hotel.  She  was  not  exactly  insincere,  for  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  be  truly  insincere — people  keep  mixing 
consistency  with  sincerity.  Aphra  was  honestly  for- 
getting the  little  private  hell  she  had  populated  with  young 
men  and  old  who  had  given  her  their  innocence,  their 
trust,  their  ardor,  their  homes,  their  reputations,  their 
characters,  their  bank  accounts,  and  already  in  one  case, 
life  itself. 

None  of  these  men  dared  to  blame  Aphra.  Even  in 
their  own  hearts  they  hardly  dared  to  blame  Aphra. 
They  would  have  laughed  themselves  to  scorn  before  the 
world  had  a  chance  to  laugh.  For  a  man  must  be  at  least  a 
good  sport,  whatever  else  he  is  of  knave  or  fool.  But  the 
wives  of  some  of  Aphra's  victims  blamed  Aphra,  and  took 
their  husbands  back  with  a  forgiveness  that  was  not 
entirely  complimentary — the  forgiveness  one  extends  to  a 
blundering  imbecile. 

Thus  finally  Aphra  had  landed  Perry  Merithew,  or, 
rather,  as  she  explained  it,  persistently  unfortimate  child 
that  she  was,  she  was  so  cruelly  misjudged  by  a  heartless 
world  that  she  fell  at  last  into  the  powers  of  the  arch- 
rou^  himself,  as  Satan  finally  captures  the  wretch  whom 
the  minor  implets  have  lured  astray. 

The  fact  was  that  Perry  had  heard  a  deal  about  Aphra, 
and  had  despised  her  till  he  met  her  at  a  dance-palace  one 
night.  It  had  needed  just  one  look  into  those  limpid 
eyes  to  show  him  what  a  ewe  lamb  she  was.  Truth  fairly 
glowed  in  that  piteous  mien,  a  face  like  Joan's  of  Arc  in 
the  flames  where  the  perfidious  English  put  her  in  spite 
of  her  saintliness.  Merithew  had  only  to  hear  that  un- 
sullied, unsuspecting  voice,  and  clasp  that  timorous,  hot 
hand,  to  know  that  Aphra  Shaler  was  the  victim  of  one  of 

34 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

the  most  loathsome  conspiracies  of  slander  ever  con- 
federated. 

Like  aU  men  who  know  the  world  too  well,  Perry  had 
long  ago  lost  all  his  original  illusions  and  had  manu- 
factured stiU  more  and  bigger  illusions  to  take  their  places 
— as  we  grow  hard  molar  and  canine  and  bicuspid  gum- 
bones  when  our  pretty  little  milk-teeth  fall  out. 

Men  of  Merithew's  experience  come  to  know  so  much 
wickedness  in  innocent  guise,  and  so  much  innocence 
under  wicked  appearances,  that  they  get  quite  turned 
about. 

For  two  years  now  Merry  Perry  had  been  attracting  the 
attention  of  all  New  York  by  his  lavish  efforts  to  console 
the  disconsolate  Aphra.  Occasionally  they  had  quarreled 
and  parted,  but  their  reunions  were  inevitable.  Perry 
kept  up  costly  attempts  to  make  her  forget  the  cruelty 
of  other  men  in  the  generosity  of  one,  to  cheat  her  of  a 
tear  or  charm  her  to  a  smile  by  way  of  a  diamond  sun- 
burst or  a  six-cylinder  runabout. 

She  could  weep  a  new  ring  out  of  him  in  twenty  minutes 
by  the  clock,  and  when  she  pounded  the  sofa-cushion  and 
began  her  moan,  "The  woman  pays  and  pays  and — "  he 
usually  beat  her  to  the  third  "pays." 

Aphra  was  nearly  as  convinced  as  Perry  was  that  she 
had  led  a  tragic  existence  and  was  mere  flotsam  hurled  by 
the  relentless  waves  of  life  against  the  rocky  cliffs  of  a 
world  which  would  never  let  a  fallen  woman  prosper. 
And  so  in  all  sincerity  she  kept  Perry  Merithew  captive 
by  his  Samaritanism.  He  was  devoted  to  indecency  by  his 
best  motives  of  decency  and  chivalry  and  by  his  illusions. 

And  the  two  of  them  became  almost  a  national  byword 
as  an  atrocious  instance  of  such  shamelessness  as  only  a 
sink  of  iniquity  like  New  York  would  tolerate. 

"O  justice  of  the  world!" 

Perry's  intrigue  with  Aphra  was  weU  known  to  Hal- 
lard.    He  had  written  Aphra  up  once  or  twice  before. 

35 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Whatever  his  personal  opinions,  he  had  never  sullied  his 
reportorial  pen  by  calling  her  any  names.  Aphra,  indeed, 
had  always  the  best  treatment  the  press  could  afford  her. 
Her  beauty  was  advertised  in  reading-matter  to  an  extent 
that  made  actresses  writhe;  her  portraits  were  published 
with  a  conspicuousness  that  spoiled  the  day  for  press- 
agents. 

But  at  this  moment  Hallard,  who  could  remember  so 
much  about  Aphra,  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  remember 
the  color  of  her  hair.  Men  ordinarily  forget,  if  they  note 
at  all,  the  pigmentation  of  their  most  intimate  acquaint- 
ances and  relations. 

Hallard  had  a  queer  feeling  that  Aphra's  hair  had  been 
yellow  once  and  black  another  time.  "I'm  getting  old," 
he  groaned  to  himself.     "I've  got  to  cut  out  the  booze." 

He  called  up  a  few  people  who  would  be  likely  to  know 
where  Aphra  lived.  He  finally  learned  her  latest  address, 
and  asked  about  her  hair.     The  voice  came  back: 

"When  I  saw  her  yesterday  it  was  lovely  auburn, 
fairest  village  of  the  plain.     Why?" 

"Much  obliged!"  said  Hallard,  and  darted  away. 
Outside  her  apartment  hotel  in  the  late  forties  he  found 
a  handsome  motor  loaded  with  baggage.  Inside,  the 
ebony  telephone-operator  informed  him  that  .Mrs.  Shaler 
was  just  leaving  town  and  positively  could  not  see  nobody. 
Hallard  went  up  to  her  door,  nevertheless,  and  her  ebony 
maid  told  him  the  same  thing.  He  walked  right  in  and 
found  Aphra  kneeling  and  using  holy  words — she  was 
trying  to  persuade  a  suit-case  to  be  a  steamer-trunk. 

While  the  maid  was  staring  at  him  like  a  mask  of 
onyx  and  ivory  Hallard  knelt  on  Aphra's  suit-case  and 
snapped  the  catches  for  her.  She  stared  at  him  as  if  he 
were  a  genie  just  bubbled  out  of  a  bottle.  He  stared  at 
her  to  make  s\ire  of  that  hair.  He  swore  internally. 
She  had  on  a  hat  and  a  motor-veil  that  completely  swathed 
her  locks. 

She  demanded  with  immediate  wrath: 

36 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"How  did  you  get  in  here?  Who  are  you,  anyway? 
Whatcha  want?     I'm  in  a  hurry." 

"Why,  don't  you  remember  me  ?"  Hallard  asked,  with  in- 
fantile surprise.     "  I  wrote  a  lovely  story  about  you  once." 

"Oh,  did  you!  Well,  I  got  no  time  for  stories.  I'm  in 
a  hurry." 

He  only  grinned  and  wheedled: 

"Sit  down  and  make  yoiirself  at  home.  Take  off  your 
hat  and  have  a  cup  of  tea." 

He  took  off  his  hat,  tossed  it  on  a  table,  and  dropped 
into  a  chair,  after  removing  a  newspaper  from  it.  It 
almost  burnt  his  fingers,  for  it  was  the  Merithew  extra 
of  the  Gazette.  He  said  nothing,  but  he  felt  that  he  knew 
the  reason  for  Aphra's  flight. 

Aphra  was  not  in  one  of  her  helpless  moods.  She  rose 
and  handed  him  his  hat  with  a  curt,  "Good-by!" 

Hallard  set  out  his  net.  "Just  half  a  mo',  Mrs. 
Shaler.  I'm  getting  up  a  Sunday  special  on  the  various 
tj^pes  of  beauty.  It's  to  be  a  swell  thing.  I've  got 
several  of  the  best-lookers  in  town.  A  couple  of  members 
of  the  Four  Hundred  among  'em.  I  want  your  picture  to 
represent  the  auburn-haired  type.  Will  you  give  me  a 
photograph  before  you  go?" 

He  thought  he  saw  a  start  in  her  eyes. 

"I  haven't  got  auburn  hair.     I'm  an  ash-blonde." 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Hallard.     "Since  when?" 

"For  some  time." 

"But  you  had  auburn  hair  this  morning." 

Aphra  threw  him  a  quick  glance,  then  answered,  re- 
luctantly: 

"You're  another!    It  was  yesterday  I  changed." 

Hallard  pleaded:  "Are  you  sure  you're  not  auburn? 
I  was  wanting  to  call  you  the  true  Titian  Venus." 

"Titian  nothin' !"  said  Aphra,  glancing  anxiously  at  her 
bracelet-watch. 

"I'm  from  Missouri,"  said  Hallard.  "You  gotta  show 
me." 

37 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

She  snatched  out  a  hat-pin,  whipped  away  her  hat  and 
veil,  and  disclosed  a  massive  coiffure  of  a  dull-ivoiy  tint, 
in  the  shadows  almost  a  pallid  mauve. 

"Am  I  auburn  or  am  I  ash?"  she  demanded. 

"Ashes  of  roses!"  Hallard  sighed. 

Then  she  jammed  her  hat  on  again  and  drove  the  pin 
home. 

The  thrust  of  that  pin  gave  Hallard  an  idea.  The 
hat-pin  as  a  weapon  had  been  very  popular  of  late  in 
melodrama  and  magazine.  Perhaps  that  very  pin  or  its 
twin  had  done  for  Perry  Merithew.  He  wished  he  had  it. 
He  tried  to  see  if  the  head  of  it  were  an  amethyst  in  a  claw, 
but  her  hand  covered  it  now  and  the  veil  hid  it  when  it 
was  in  place. 

"You  had  auburn  hair  yesterday?"  Hallard  persisted. 

"In  the  morning,  yes,"  snapped  Aphra.  "In  the 
afternoon,  no." 

"Who  dyed  it  for  you?" 

"That's  my  affair." 

"How  long  would  it  take  a  bottle  of  peroxide  to  work 
if  you  emptied  it  on  your  head?" 

"Well,  of  all  the  nerve!"  she  cried. 

The  maid  appeared:  "Miss  Aphry,  yo'  cheffoor  says  if 
you  goin'  git  to  Noo  Juzzy  befo'  sundown  you  got  to  take 
yo'  feet  in  yo'  han'." 

Aphra  seized  the  smt-case,  the  maid  caught  up  two 
others,  and  they  moved  to  the  door.  Hallard  let  the  maid 
go,  then  intercepted  Aphra.  He  closed  the  hall  door 
behind  him  and  said: 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  have  you  heard  that  Perry  Merithew 
was  mvirdered  last  night?" 

"No— yes." 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  shock  you  much," 

"  Why  should  it  ?    We  had  a  big  quarrel  the  other  day." 

"A  quarrel,  eh?    Then  you  mustn't  leave  town." 

"Oh,  mustn't  I ?    Who's  to  stop  me ?" 

"I'm  going  to." 

38 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Her  lip  crinkled  with  angry  contempt  as  she  sneered: 

"Say!  You  reporters  are  doing  all  the  policemen's 
work,  ain't  you — ^aren't  you?" 

"  Not  quite.     But  I  want  you  to  stay  here." 

"Got  a  warrant?" 

"No,  but—" 

"Then  you  get  out  of  my  way  or  I'll  pin  you  to  that 
door  with  this."     She  put  her  hand  to  her  hat. 

Hallard  wanted  to  get  that  pin,  but  not  in  the  flesh. 
He  had  no  desire  to  be  fotind  there  as  victim  number 
two.  He  opened  the  door  and  entered  the  elevator  with 
Aphra.     He  murmured  over  her  shoulder: 

"If  you  will  let  the  Gazette  take  care  of  you,  I  can  put 
you  where  nobody  will  find  you  and  we'll  pay  you  anything 
you  want." 

Aphra  laughed.  Hallard  offered  to  carry  her  suit- 
case for  her. 

"Not  on  your  life,"  said  Aphra. 

She  climbed  into  the  car.  Hallard  was  desperate 
enough  to  have  appealed  to  a  policeman,  but  none  was  in 
view.  He  put  his  hand  on  her  arm  as  she  settled  along- 
side her  chauffeur. 

"One  last  question,"  he  said. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Where  were  you  last  night?" 

"None  of  your  damned  business," 

"Where  are  you  going  now?" 

"The  same  to  you  and  many  of  them.     Go  on." 

As  the  car  moved  away  she  called  back  to  him:  "Take 
a  tip  from  me.  Look  up  Muriel  Schuyler.  He  liked  her 
and  she  had  copper-colored  wool.     Her  own,  too!" 

The  car  shot  away  as  if  a  gim  propelled  it.  Hallard 
sniffed  at  her  suggestion  and  set  it  down  to  jealousy  or  a 
desperate  ruse  to  shift  suspicion.  He  went  back  to  her 
apartment  to  interview  the  maid.  She  gave  him  one 
glance  and  slammed  the  door  in  his  face.  Then  he  heard 
a  bolt  shot,  and  a  mellow  voice  came  through  the  panels: 

39 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Man,  they  ain't  no  use  pesterin'  me.  I  don't  know 
nothin'  a  tall  abote  nothin'  a  tall.  I'm  the  know-noth- 
in'est  nigro  they  is.     Good  day!" 

And  that  was  the  last  word  that  could  be  drawn  from  the 
wood. 

Still  Hallard  felt  that  there  was  excuse  enough  from  his 
standards  to  justify  him  in  telephoning  City  Editor  Ulery 
about  what  he  had  turned  up.  He  gave  Ulery  some 
general  notions  of  the  proper  treatment  of  Aphra  Shaler 
and  reminded  him  that  there  were  several  large  pictures 
of  her  already  in  stock.  Aphra  Shaler's  face  consequently 
appeared  on  the  front  page  of  a  "postscript  extra"  with 
adroit  reference  to  her  affair  with  Merithew  and  to  her 
reasons  for  flight.  If  the  poHce  wanted  to  make  use  of 
Hallard's  discoveries  they  coiild  take  them  from  his 
btilletins. 

He  told  Ulery  that  he  hoped  it  would  not  be  necessary 
for  him  to  go  to  New  Jersey.  He  hated  New  Jersey.  He 
begged  Ulery  to  call  up  the  New  Jersey  correspondents 
and  set  them  on  her  track.  Perhaps  they  could  pick  her 
up  at  one  of  the  ferry-houses  as  soon  as  she  arrived  on  the 
foreign  soil  of  Hoboken,  Weehawken,  or  Jersey  City. 

Ulery  promised  to  take  care  of  that  end  of  the  matter. 
Then  he  told  Hallard  that  there  was  a  new  development. 
One  of  the  Central  Office  men  had  let  fall  a  hint  that  the 
job  looked  like  the  work  of  "Red  Ida."  The  word  had 
gone  out  to  bring  her  in. 

Hallard  laughed  so  hard  that  he  hurt  Ulery 's  ear: 

"  Poor  Ida  Ganley !  She's  been  very  useful  to  the  cops. 
She  told  me  once  that  whenever  they  were  at  a  standstill 
they  always  picked  on  her.  She  says  she's  been  sent  in 
for  everybody's  crimes  but  her  own.  It's  a  frame-up,  I 
tell  you.  They  haven't  got  anything  on  that  poor  little 
pickpocket." 

"Nothing  but  her  copper-colored  hair." 

"Cleopatra  had  it,  too,  and  I'll  bet  she's  no  farther 

40 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

away.    And  what  would  Merithew  be  doing  in  the  society 
of  a  crook  Hke  Ida?" 

"She's  a  swell  looker  when  she's  ragged  out,  and  they 
say  she  was  seen  dancing  with  him  at  a  tango-palace. 
She's  done  a  little  blackmail  and  some  badger-work  with 
that  gimman  husband  of  hers.  What's  his  name? — ^he 
ran  the  stuss-house  right  near  there  in  Allen  Street. 
And  the  Central  Office  tells  our  man  that  both  Ida  and 
her  man  have  lammistered  since  this  morning." 

Hallard  sighed:  "Well,  I'll  nose  round.  But  I  don't 
believe  Perry  Merithew  ever  fell  for  any  East  Side  gun- 
girl." 

"He  was  robbed,  wasn't  he?  His  money  was  all  gone; 
his  watch  had  been  taken  from  the  chain;  his  famous 
diamond  was  missing  from  his  finger;  and  his  inevitable 
black  pearl  was  ripped  out  of  his  necktie  —  good  word 
inevitable  black  pearl!     I'll  make  a  note  of  it.     Go  to  it!" 

This  Ida  theory  might  convince  Ulery  and  the  police, 
but  Hallard's  reportorial  instinct  rejected  it. 

In  any  case  the  dilemma  had  two  sharp  horns:  how 
could  a  delicate  plutocrat  like  Perry  Merithew  become 
interested  enough  in  any  sliim  queen  to  follow  her  to  such 
a  grimy  district?  Why  should  any  of  the  women  of  his 
own  circle  have  taken  him  there? 

Perhaps  he  had  been  murdered  in  some  other  place 
and  his  body  transported  thither.  This  seemed  more 
improbable  than  any  other  theory,  seeing  that  there  were 
at  least  two  rivers  far  more  accessible  for  the  disposition  of 
the  remains.  And  yet  it  was  hardly  less  likely  that  Perry 
Merithew  should  have  been  taken  there  dead  than  that 
he  should  have  gone  there  alive. 

Of  course  the  aristocrats  did  visit  the  slums  occasionally, 
those  of  them  who  had  gentle  hearts  and  who  knew  that 
they  were  in  no  more  danger  among  the  tenements  than 
amiong  the  palaces.  Muriel  Schuyler,  for  instance,  had 
gone  about  in  the  slums  with  little  less  constraint  than 
she  had  felt  in  being  alone  on  Fifth  Avenue. 
2  41 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Perhaps  she  had  taken  Perry  Merithew  there.  She 
c»uld  have  persuaded  him  to  go,  if  any  one  could.  But 
what  could  have  persuaded  her  to  trust  herself  alone  with 
him  ?  Why  should  so  wealthy  a  girl  have  robbed  him  and 
left  him?  If  some  one  else  killed  him  in  her  presence,  why 
had  she  not  given  the  alarm?  After  such  a  scene,  how 
could  she  have  had  the  face  to  ride  with  Mrs.  Merithew 
in  pretended  ignorance? 

Yet  why  had  Aphra  Shaler  tossed  her  name  to  him? 


CHAPTER  VI 

HALLARD  was  as  dissatisfied  as  a  lean  wolf  on  a  cold 
night,  finding  plenty  of  spoor  to  whet  his  hunger, 
but  reaching  a  barred  fold  at  the  end  of  every  trail. 

The  matter  of  Aphra  Shaler  tantalized  him.  There 
was  so  much  that  was  suspicious  about  her  that  he  began 
to  be  less  certain  of  her  guilt.  He  had  learned  one  great 
lesson  of  life — ^to  suspect  siispicion;  to  keep  it  alert  and 
elastic,  but  never  to  trust  it,  never  to  mistake  it  for 
evidence. 

And  yet  he  must  never  dismiss  suspicion  with  contempt. 
The  idlest  suspicion  was  visually  based  on  a  complex  of 
experiences.  It  served  with  men  for  what  women  call 
intuition.  It  was  contemptibly  imtrustworthy,  and  yet 
it  won  occasional  amazing  triumphs. 

Why  did  a  woman  Hke  Aphra  Shaler  mention  a  woman 
like  Muriel  Schuyler  ?  Was  it  the  natural  jealousy  of  the 
foul  for  the  fair?     Or  had  it  some  specific  cause? 

It  was  worth  looking  into  in  any  case.  At  least  Miss 
Schuyler  might  help  with  some  further  information.  He 
knew  that  if  he  applied  at  the  door  of  the  Schuyler  home 
he  would  be  turned  away  like  a  book-agent.  If  he  tele- 
phoned he  would  be  similarly  fended  off  by  some  secretary 
or  servant.  Homes  like  the  Schuylers'  were  so  infested 
with  impertinent  strangers  that  they  had  to  put  up  screens 
of  all  sorts.  Their  reporter-screen  was  particularly  fine 
of  mesh  and  strong  of  wire. 

Still,  a  try  must  always  be  had.  He  would  buzz  aroimd 
the  Schuyler  house.  It  would  pique  the  public  appetite 
to  attach  another  great  name  to  the  great  name  of  Meri- 

43 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

thew.  And  it  was  easy  enough  to  lug  it  in.  The  courts 
count  a  citizen  innocent  till  he  or  she  is  proved  giiilty, 
but  they  lock  him  or  her  up  till  they  make  sure.  The 
newspapers  imply  guilt  till  the  innocence  is  proved.  An 
"It  is  said"  or  "There  is  a  rumor"  or  "An  informant 
stated  "  is  excuse  enough  to  admit  anything  to  the  columns. 

HaUard  took  a  Fifth  Avenue  stage  up-town.  There  were 
two  copper-haired  women  aboard.  People  were  staring 
at  them  curiously.  Along  the  street  Hallard  saw  dozens 
of  copper  heads.  He  noted  that  passers-by  were  nudging 
one  another  and  turning  to  stare  after  them.  There  would 
be  a  great  industry  in  alibi  among  all  these  auburn-tressed 
folk  for  the  next  few  days. 

He  descended  from  the  'bus  a  block  below  the  noble 
mansion  of  the  Schuylers.  He  had  not  yet  selected  a 
promising  device  for  getting  into  the  presence.  Still,  he 
climbed  the  steps,  trusting  to  his  attendant  divinity  to 
provide  him  with  a  sop  for  the  Cerberus. 

The  door  swimg  open  as  he  reached  for  the  button. 
A  young  man  was  just  being  let  out.  Hallard  fell  back 
unnoticed,  wondering  if  the  man  might  be  some  reporter 
who  had  preceded  him.  The  small  black  hand-bag  was 
reassuring.  He  was  either  a  piano-tiiner  or  a  physician. 
The  butler  solved  the  uncertainty.     He  was  saying : 

"I  hope  it's  nothing  serious,  doctor." 

"Oh  no,  a  little  too  much  excitement,  that's  all.  But 
it's  better  to  have  the  nurse." 

"Yes,  sir;  I  always  say  'an  otmce  of  prevention' — 
Yes,  sir;  yes,  doctor." 

"When  the  nurse  comes  tell  her  not  to  wake  Miss 
Muriel  if  she's  asleep." 

"Oh  no,  sir.     No,  indeed,  doctor." 

"Tell  her  I  left  instructions  with  Miss  Muriel's  maid." 

"Yes,  doctor.  You'll  be  looking  in  again  soon,  won't 
you?" 

"  In  an  hour  or  two.     Good-by." 

"Good-by,  doctor." 

44 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Hallard  let  him  close  the  door  without  making  himself 
known.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  servant's  face 
as  he  bowed.  It  was  the  face  of  a  veteran  soldier,  quick 
with  deference  to  a  superior,  quick  with  hostility  to  an 
intruder.  His  face  was  softened  with  anxiety  now.  So 
was  the  face  of  the  doctor,  who  turned  and  plodded  down 
the  steps  to  the  little  car  of  which  he  was  his  own  chauffeur. 

Hallard  caught  up  with  him  as  he  was  about  to  get  in. 
"One  moment,  doctor,  please.  I  was  about  to  call  on 
Miss  Schuyler,  but  I  overheard  you  say  that  she  was  ill. 
It's  nothing  serious,  is  it?" 

"Oh  no;  but  she's  prostrated  with  shock.  She  was 
with  poor  Mrs.  Merithew  when  she  learned  of  her  hus- 
band's death.     Yo    knew  of  that,  didn't  you?" 

"I. saw  something  in  one  of  the  papers." 

"Muriel — er,  Miss  Schuyler  was  with  her  when  the 
news  came,  and  Mrs.  Merithew  climg  to  her  and  poured 
out  her  grief  to  her.  She  took  it  very  hard,  and  the  poor 
girl  has  such  a  big  heart  that  it  nearly  killed  her.  She 
sent  for  me  to  help  quiet  Mrs.  Merithew,  and  when  I'd 
done  that  I  brought  Miss  Schuyler  home.  She'll  be  all 
right,  but  it  was  a  terrible  drain  on  her  strength." 

"I  don't  suppose  I'd  better  call,  then?" 

"I  should  say  not.  I've  left  orders  that  nobody  is  to 
see  her,  not  even  her  father  and  mother,  till  she's  better." 

"  Did  she  know  Mr.  Merithew  very  well?" 

"No,  no;  only  casually.  He  wasn't  her  type  and  she 
wasn't  his." 

Hallard  was  achingly  eager  to  ask  the  doctor  his  name, 
but  before  he  could  phrase  the  query  to  his  liking  the  car 
was  moving  off.  He  made  note  of  its  number,  however, 
and  by  telephoning  to  a  friend  at  police  headquarters  soon 
learned  that  the  mmiber  belonged  to  the  car  of  Dr.  CHnton 
Worthing. 

Hallard  remembered  him  dimly  as  a  yotmg  hospital 
interne  he  had  met  at  an  accident  a  year  or  so  before. 
It  was  a  strange  leap  upward  from  the  tail  of  an  ambu- 

45 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

lance  to  the  post  of  physician  in  ordinary  to  the  Schuyler 
heiress.  Hallard's  memory  of  Worthing  uncovered  other 
memories.  He  believed  that  he  had  seen  the  young  doctor 
in  Muriel's  company  somewhere. 

Where?    When? 

And  then  fatigue  overtook  his  memory.  His  brain,  like 
an  over-driven  horse,  calmly  lay  down  in  its  shafts  and 
would  not  be  kicked  or  yanked  or  coaxed  to  its  feet.  He 
climbed  aboard  a  down-town  stage.  He  was  too  weary 
to  mount  the  shaking  stairway ;  he  squeezed  in  among  the 
matrons  and  damozels.  In  the  low  voices  he  caught  the 
name  of  Merithew.  It  irritated  him.  He  felt  like  a  man 
fallen  among  brambles.  There  was  no  repose  in  inaction, 
and  whichever  way  he  turned  was  a  new  thorn.  He  had 
scratched  his  eyes  out  among  them  and  he  must  thresh 
about  among  the  brambles  till  he  scratched  them  in 
again. 

He  decided  that  he  was  htmgry  and  thirsty.  It  was 
not  safe  for  him  to  drink  at  such  a  time.  Taking  his 
first  glass  was  Hke  stepping  aboard  an  imknown  steamer 
boimd  for  an  imknown  port. 

He  sentenced  himself  to  coffee  and  those  innocent  white 
biscuit-like  things  that  harsh  experience  has  named 
"sinkers." 

As  he  entered  a  dairy  limch-room  he  fell  back  to  make 
way  for  a  young  shop-girl  who  was  wearing  a  tooth- 
pick coquettishly  in  her  teeth.  Her  head  was  bundled 
in  swaddles  of  copper-colored  hair.  Hallard's  heart 
stumbled  in  its  beat.  He  stared  after  her,  tempted  to 
pursue  her.  She  vanished  in  a  chaos  of  traffic.  He  said, 
*' Perhaps  she  is  the  one." 

But  he  was  too  fagged  to  nm  after  her.  He  entered 
the  lunch-room.  The  cashier  perched  in  her  cage  like  a 
wax  automaton  on  exhibition  had  copper-colored  hair. 
It  was  heaped  up  high  enough  to  conceal  a  dozen  clippings. 

There  was  red  in  the  hair  of  the  waitress  at  the  next 
table  who  chewed  gum  with  one  side  of  her  mouth  while  she 

46 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

demanded  with  the  other,  "Whatcha  gona  have?"     Hal- 
iard  began  to  feel  himself  bewitched. 

Nearly  every  one  in  the  restaurant  was  reading  about 
Perry  Merithew.  Every  newspaper  gave  his  name  as 
much  prominence  as  its  customs  permitted  it  to  give  to 
any  one  or  anything.  ' 

A  man  at  Hallard's  table  showed  his  paper  to  the 
waitress  and  said,  with  a  clever  smile:  "Say,  kiddo,  was 
you  the  dame  that  done  it?  You  got  them  copper-colored 
coils  all  right,  all  right." 

The  waitress  laughed  good-naturedly  as  she  set  down 
his  coffee  and  syrup-pitcher  and  skirled  the  buckwheat- 
cakes  his  way: 

"You're  the  eight'  guy's  ast  me  that  's  afternoon.  If 
you'd  'a'  went  to  the  Lady  Piano  Movers*  ball  las'  night 
and  sor  me  dancin'  every  dance  till  breakfast-time  you'd 
know  I  been  too  busy  to  commit  any  moiders." 

When  Hallard  went  to  the  cashier  with  his  check  he  had 
to  wait  while  a  dapper  jester  from  a  haberdashery  slipped 
a  little  persiflage  through  the  bars : 

"Better  get  your  excuses  ready,  girlie.  The  flatties 
are  lookin'  for  you  in  that  little  Merithew  matter." 

The  cashier  laughed  loftily: 

"I  should  worry  and  get  a  wrinkle!  If  little  Me  ever 
got  close  enough  to  one  of  those  kind  of  millionaires  for 
him  to  get  his  hands  in  me  wool  I'd  never  cut  myself  loose. 
I'd  stay  right  'vsdth  him." 

Hallard  shot  his  money  tinder  the  wicket  and  hurried 
away,  gleaning  as  he  went  a  handful  of  toothpicks  from  an 
enormous  sheaf  of  them  erected  on  a  table. 

In  the  street  he  almost  ran  into  a  copper-colored  lady 
climbing  into  a  taxicab.     He  saw  copper  hair  everywhere. 

He  telephoned  Ulery,  "I'm  after  Red  Ida,  but  I  think 
I'm  batty." 

It  is  a  serious  business  being  a  reporter-detective. 
When  a  plain  detective  knows  nothing  he  can  keep  quiet 

47 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

and  look  wise  and  let  his  salary  work.  A  reporter- 
detective  on  space  rates  mttst  go  right  on  reporting. 

Hallard  resolved  once  more  that  ^s  best  hope  of  trac- 
ing Perry  Merithew's  companion  was  to  keep  as  close  to  the 
dead  man's  own  history  as  possible  and  work  outward 
from  that. 

It  would  be  a  pleasanter  task  than  pursuing  Aphra 
Shaler  into  New  Jersey,  or  Maryla  Sokalska  from  her 
obscure  beginnings,  or  Red  Ida  in  her  sordid  career.  And 
it  would  make  better  copy,  too,  since  the  public  has  an 
unslakable  thirst  for  the  petty  chronicles  of  the  rich, 
while  the  poor  can  interest  it  only  by  some  desperate 
deed. 

Appealing  from  Perry  Merithew  dead  to  Perry  Meri- 
thew  alive,  the  first  question  was  not  so  much  how  did 
he  happen  to  be  on  the  roof  as  how  did  he  happen  to  be 
in  New  York  at  all  during  that  bitterly  trying  week? 

Thousands  of  sight-seers  from  other  cities  sweated  along 
the  streets  to  see  the  tall  buildings  and  imagine  one 
another  New-Yorkers.  But  all  the  true  New-Yorkers 
who  could  afford  to  be  absent  kept  aloof  from  the  city. 
And  Perry  Merithew  could  afford  it. 

Nobody  of  means  came  in  except  on  business  or  charity, 
and  Perry  Merithew  had  little  business  and  less  charity. 
Mrs.  Merithew  and  Muriel  Schuyler  had  been  lured  in, 
doubtless,  by  some  Samaritan  appeal,  but  Perry  was 
only  a  self-Samaritan.  A  strong  motive,  indeed,  must 
have  driven  him  from  his  seaside  resorts  or  his  cotmtry 
club  to  the  frying  city. 

What  was  the  motive?  Who  inspired  it? —  But  the 
Mallards  are  depressing  company  at  best.  They  do  not 
make  themselves  or  anybody  else  happy.  Whether  they 
do  the  world  any  good  or  not  it  is  hard  to  say.  It  is 
evident  that  the  world  does  them  very  Httle  good,  and 
gives  them  very  little  pleasure. 

Hallard  used  to  say  that  he  "knew  New  York  back- 
ward."    He  spoke  truer  than  he  thought.    He  was  for 

48 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

ever  working  from  crimes  to  criminals.  He  met  his 
people  after  they  had  done  their  worst.  It  was  then  too 
late  to  reaUze  how  weU  or  ill  they  had  meant,  or  how 
gradually  they  had  arrived  at  a  crisis  that  must  have  dis- 
mayed them  as  much  as  the  rest  of  the  world.  For  the 
man  who  finds  another  standing  with  a  smoking  revolver 
over  a  victim  is  no  more  siirprised  than  the  man  who  finds 
himself  in  such  an  attitude.  But  thereafter  it  is  im- 
possible for  anybody,  even  for  the-  man  himself,  to  study 
his  past  without  seeing  it  darkly,  as  through  the  red 
glass  of  its  climax. 

Hallard  back-trailed  Merithew's  life  till  he  could  have 
written  a  biography  as  full  as  Boswell's.  He  followed 
numberless  clues  and  they  led  him  into  numerous  laby- 
rinths, up  countless  blind  alleys.  He  finally  narrowed  his 
list  of  copper-haired  possibilities  down  to  a  few  young 
women  of  such  variety  in  origin,  quality,  and  motive  that 
they  had  hardly  anything  in  common  except  the  com- 
ratmity  of  traits  and  interests  that  make  humans  human 
and  women  women:  hunger,  desire,  ambition,  fear,  van- 
ity, and  such  impulses. 

These  women  came  to  New  York  with  more  or  less  of 
innocence  and  more  or  less  of  cvuiosity. 

There  was  Aphra  Shaler,  the  Httle  pig  who  brought 
herself  to  market:  she  came  down  from  "up-state"  and 
crossed  the  river  on  a  Forty-second  Street  ferry.  There 
was  Mary  la  Sokalska,  who  was  bom  at  sea  shortly  before 
her  parents  passed  the  Statue  of  Liberty  in  their  flight 
from  the  poverty  and  oppression  of  Russian  Poland. 
There  was  Red  Ida,  who  came  over  the  Brooklyn  Bridge 
from  Sheepshead  Bay,  where  she  was  bom.  There  was 
"Pet"  Bettany,  who  was  bom  in  New  England,  but  was 
the  least  Puritanical  of  yoimg  women;  she  was  bom  rich 
and  Hved  rich  and  always  bewailed  her  poverty,  and 
came  first  from  her  native  Newport  to  her  adopted  New 
York  in  a  Pullman  drawing-room.  And  there  was  Muriel 
Schuyler,  who  came  to  New  York  in  the  way  that  humorists 

49 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

declare  no  one  ever  comes — by  way  of  being  bom  in  New 
York. 

These  women  learned  the  city  forward  through  wide 
young  eyes;  it  thrilled  their  red  yoimg  hearts.  Perry 
Merithew,  too,  thrilled  them  all  with  his  love  of  beauty, 
his  flair  for  happiness,  his  tender-hearted  heartlessness, 
his  cautious  recklessness. 

Rather  than  trace  the  story  backward  as  Hallard  did, 
rather  than  travel  the  city  imder  the  gtddance  of  a  news- 
paper jade  who  knew  his  New  York  too  well,  and  whose 
few  moments  of  elation  were  due  to  the  finding-out  of 
depressing  things,  it  were  more  congenial,  surely,  to  tell 
the  story  as  time  unroUed  it — forward,  without  knowl- 
edge of  the  goal.  It  is  an  old  device,  and  a  creaky,  to 
turn  the  calendar  back  for  a  year,  but  it  saves  the  reader 
from  acquiring  history  upside  down  and  from  viewing  the 
gorgeous  city  through  the  yellow  spectacles  of  a  jaimdiced 
cynic. 

Therefore,  if  it  please  the  court,  it  ceases  to  be  the 
month  of  July,  1914;  it  becomes  the  month  of  August, 
1913- 


CHAPTER  VII 

FOR  it  was  just  about  a  year  before  Perry  Merithew's 
death  that  Muriel  Schuyler  took  note  of  him  for  the 
first  time.  She  had  heard  as  much  of  him  as  a  young 
girl  only  recently  come  out  was  likely  to  hear  of  the  beau 
of  the  generation  immediately  preceding.  She  began  to 
go  to  big  dances  shortly  after  he  quit  going  to  them. 

Like  him  she  rose  from  the  original  New  York  stock. 
The  first  of  her  name  had  landed  on  Manhattan  Island 
before  there  was  a  New  York,  when  there  was  only  a 
Dutch  trading-post  called  Nieuw  Amsterdam.  The 
Dutch  Schuylers  grew  EngHsh  and  wealthy  with  the  town, 
and,  so  far  as  age  makes  aiistocracy,  they  were  aristo- 
cratic. So  far  as  aristocracy  consists  in  belonging  to  a 
family  that  has  for  some  time  been  wearing  good  clothes, 
eating  choice  food,  being  well  cared  for  and  waited  on, 
traveling  for  pleasure,  not  being  too  much  worried  about 
money,  and  associating  with  people  of  the  same  sort,  they 
were  aristocratic.  Like  all  aristocrats  they  had  their 
fields  of  ignorance,  their  limitations  in  things  they  could 
afford,  their  moods  of  bad  manners  and  wickedness. 

Up  to  this  time  Muriel  had  spent  only  a  little  of  her 
life  in  New  York.  The  town  was  to  her  what  it  was  to 
the  masters  of  the  sailing-vessels  that  called  it  their  home 
port — ^it  was  their  place  of  departure.  The  family  had 
been  driven  out  of  her  birthplace  on  lower  Fifth  Avenue 
by  the  ever-rising  tide  of  trade  soon  after  she  had  been 
bom  there.  She  trundled  her  hoop  in  Washington  Square 
a  summer  or  two,  and  then  she  was  trundled  out  to  the 
country  home;    thence  she  was  carried  abroad  and  she 

SI 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

forgot  her  American  for  English,  and  English  for  Italian, 
and  Italian  for  French,  according  to  her  mother's  resi- 
dence. When  her  mother  returned  to  America,  Muriel 
had  to  learn  her  native  language  all  over  again. 

Her  new  home  faced  Central  Park,  and  she  rode  her 
pony  or  drove  her  little  side-cart  there  or  fed  the  animals 
peanuts.  Except  for  the  hours  when  she  was  the  victim 
of  her  governess's  determination  to  fill  her  curl-ciirtained 
head  with  learning,  most  of  her  girlhood  was  spent  out  of 
doors  at  the  country  home  or  in  schools  abroad. 

Always  her  health  and  her  happiness  were  the  first 
demands  of  her  parents,  who  were  almost  as  simple  and 
homely  as  their  names,  Jacob  and  Susan.  They  them- 
selves had  foimd  life  sweet  and  kept  it  clean  and  beautiful. 
They  had  known  little  trouble,  they  had  thought  kindly 
thoughts,  been  well  amused,  had  eaten  good  food,  tasted 
always  the  best  wines,  worn  the  best  clothes,  dwelt 
gracefully  among  luxiiries.  They  had  kept  up  their  life- 
long acquaintance  with  good  horses  and  brought  Muriel 
up  to  the  saddle. 

Like  her  mother  and  her  father,  Muriel  could  ride  al- 
most any  horse  almost  anywhere,  through  bog  and  brier, 
over  fence  and  water-jump,  in  Rotten  Row,  the  Bois,  or 
Central  Park.  She  could  run  her  own  car,  and  her  ex- 
ploits with  a  motor-boat  were  terrifying  to  behold.  She 
knew  a  lot  about  dogs  and  their  breeding.  She  managed 
her  father's  palatial  kennels,  where  the  famous  Schuyler 
collies  were  reared.  She  knew  something  about  cattle, 
and  saw  to  it  that  her  father's  noble  Holsteins  had  their 
teeth  brushed  every  day  and  were  groomed  till  they  looked 
like  drawings  in  black-and-white.  She  was  a  good  fellow 
among  the  yoimg  men,  and  entirely  too  busy  to  fall  in  love. 
Such  flirtations  as  she  had  indulged  in  were  hardly  more 
than  experiments  in  comradeship.  She  had  known  as  little 
of  sorrow  or  poverty,  of  toil  or  love,  or  vice  or  crime,  as  a 
girl  could  know  who  has  eyes  and  ears  and  can  read  or  Hsten. 
She  had  never  encountered  death  or  despair  or  passion. 

52 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

The  longer  such  knowledge  is  delayed  the  more  likely- 
it  is  to  come  in  avalanches  when  it  starts  to  come.  Muriel 
knew  far  less  of  the  dark  side  of  the  world  at  twenty  than 
Red  Ida  had  known  at  ten.  She  poised  on  the  threshold 
of  life  as  one  peering  into  a  dark  and  haunted  house. 

And  now  in  August  of  the  year  19 13  she  was  just 
"running  into"  New  York  on  her  father's  yacht  be- 
cause the  old  boy  was  childishly  eager  to  have  her 
with  him  when  he  inspected  the  latest  addition  to 
his  princely  collection,  the  complete  library  accumulated 
in  Northmarch  Castle  by  the  Dukes  of  Bray.  As  soon 
as  Jacob  Schuyler  had  heard  that  the  collection  was 
to  be  sold  he  had  cabled  the  men  who  kept  him  in- 
formed of  the  big  doings  in  the  international  book- 
market:  "Buy  me  it."  The  dealers  sent  back  a  price 
that  crackled  on  the  cables.  Jacob  retorted  by  wire: 
"Buy  me  it."     They  bought  him  it. 

The  loot  had  arrived  at  the  port  of  New  York  a  week 
before.  Schuyler's  private  librarian  had  eased  the  books 
through  the  customs,  unpacked  and  arranged  them  in 
colonies  by  subjects,  and  then  telegraphed  old  Jacob 
that  his  treasure  was  ready  for  his  inspection. 

As  usual  in  August  the  eastern  seaboard  was  cowering 
imder  a  hot  wave,  and  New  York  was  in  the  throes  of  it, 
but  Jacob  would  not  wait  for  cooler  weather.  He  must 
see  his  new  books,  "the  old  boy's  new  toys,"  as  Muriel 
called  them. 

She  came  in  with  him  on  his  yacht.  As  they  were 
skirting  the  Long  Island  coast  they  made  out  dead  ahead 
a  mighty  pother  in  the  flashing  waters  of  the  Sound. 

"It's  a  motor-boat,"  Muriel  cried,  from  the  shade-deck, 
where  they  sat. 

It  rose  from  the  water  like  a  dragon-fly  and  stormed  past 
them  overhead. 

"It's  an  airship,"  she  amended. 

It  was  both.  The  sailing-master  informed  them  that 
it  was  Mr.  Merithew's  new  hydro-aeroplane. 

53 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Schuyler  staxed  at  it  and  smiled:  "It's  the  first  time 
anybody  ever  looked  up  to  Perry  Merithew." 

"Is  he  so  bad?"  Muriel  queried. 

"  He's  a  scandal  to  his  name,  a  thorn  in  his  family  pride, 
and  a  beast  to  his  wife." 

"He's  not  afraid,  anyway,"  Muriel  interposed.  "He 
risks  his  life  lightly." 

"He's  not  risking  an  article  of  any  particular  value," 
Jacob  growled. 

"I  like  to  see  a  man  that's  not  afraid  of  anything," 
Muriel  pondered  aloud,  her  eyes  still  on  the  swooping 
dragon-fly. 

"The  less  you  see  of  Perry  Merithew  the  better  for 
you,"  her  father  muttered. 

This  was  enough  to  make  the  man  fascinating  even  to  a 
girl  like  Muriel — especially  to  a  girl  like  Muriel,  with  a 
mind  of  her  own  and  a  curiosity  for  people  and  things. 
She  did  not  forget  Merithew  when  he  vanished  into  the 
stmlight. 

Schuyler  beckoned  to  his  secretary  and  said: 

"Oh,  Chivot,  would  you  mind  calling  the  office  and 
seeing  if  there's  any  reason  for  me  to  come  down  to-day? 
It's  pretty  hot." 

The  precise  Mr.  Chivot  went  to  the  wireless  operator 
and  the  air  at  the  masthead  began  to  sputter  and  snap. 
Later  Mr.  Chivot  returned  to  say:  "The  office  telephones 
the  wireless  station  that  the  president  of  the  board  of  the 
T.  M.  and  K.  Railway  is  in  town  and  would  like  to  see 
you,  sir." 

Schuyler  sighed:  "  Oh,  all  right.  Tell  him  I'll  run  down 
soon  as  we  land." 

The  snapping  sparks  at  the  masthead  told  the  office 
that.  The  yacht,  like  a  duchess  out  shopping,  picked  its 
way  down  the  crowded  water  street  through  Hell  Gate, 
and  past  the  doleful  islands  of  Randall,  Ward,  and  Black- 
well,   under  the  Queensborough  Bridge,  and  over  the 

54 


Muriel  forgot  her  anger   and  her  danger  in  a 


mitt   remorse   for   what   she   had   not    caused. 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

under-river  tunnels,  till  eventually  it  reached  the  New 
York  Yacht  Club's  landing-float  at  the  eastern  foot  of 
Twenty-third  Street.  The  yacht  club's  station  was  the 
most  modest  of  the  structures  clustered  thereabouts:  the 
old  moored  ship  called  the  "Deep  Sea  Hotel,"  a  training- 
ship  or  two,  a  free  public  bath,  a  shelter  of  the  Society  for 
the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals,  and  a  recreation 
pier  where  mothers  sat  all  day  in  the  cool  moist  breezes, 
lifting  their  eyes  from  their  sewing  to  watch  their  infants 
at  play  and  see  the  endless  promenade  of  the  river  traffic. 
There,  also,  a  city-paid  band  pours  out  a  not  too  classical 
program  now  and  then,  and  in  the  evenings  there  are 
nooks  where  the  vitally  important  industry  of  flirtation 
furnishes  the  raw  material  for  the  dangerous  laboratory 
of  matrimony. 

Muriel  liked  to  see  these  places  and  the  majestic  hos- 
pitals that  dignify  the  water-front.  They  certified  to  her 
that  the  poor  of  New  York  were  abundantly  cared  for  and 
very  happy  and  contented — or  ought  to  be. 

One  of  her  father's  toiiring-cars  was  waiting  at  the 
landing-sHp.  She  expected  to  ride  down  to  his  office 
with  him,  but  he  said  that  the  sim  was  too  hot  and  the 
journey  too  long  for  her.  He  insisted  on  making  the  trip 
in  a  taxicab  and  sending  her  home  in  the  car. 

Like  an  eager  child  on  Christmas  morning  he  made  her 
promise  not  to  look  at  the  new  books  till  he  could  enter 
the  library  with  her. 

Muriel  flung  him  a  kiss  of  farewell  and  hopped  into  the 
seat  by  the  chauffeur,  with  whom  she  chatted  in  a  care- 
free forenoon  mood.  Jacques  Pamy  adored  her,  for  she 
spoke  his  French  like  a  Parisienne  and  she  knew  nearly 
as  much  as  he  did  about  machinery. 

For  all  the  beauty  of  her  face,  for  all  the  opulence  of 
her  copper-colored  hair,  her  heart  as  yet  belonged  rather 
to  a  wholesome  boy  than  to  a  young  woman  of  romantic 
capabilities. 

On  all  the  streets  of  the  middle  East  Side  the  school-free 

59 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

children  were  bouncing  about  like  popc»m  on  a  hot  skillet. 
Particularly  lively  they  were  in  the  "Gas-house  District" 
which  Muriel  was  now  traversing.  On  First  Avenue  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  steer  the  car.  The  chaiiffeur 
turned  off  into  a  less-cluttered  side-street.  There  were 
children  here,  too,  but  he  quickened  his  speed  to  pass  a 
lumbering  express-truck.  From  behind  it  leaped  a  little 
boy. 

He  was  poor  and  scrawny  and  a  cripple.  He  was  play- 
ing the  favorite  game  of  the  New  York  streets.  Mysteri- 
ously the  boys  call  it  " cat."  You  lay  a  short  stick  on  the 
pavement,  tap  it  sharply  with  a  longer  stick;  it  flies  into 
the  air,  then  you  hit  at  it  with  your  bat,  and  if  you  are 
swift  and  lucky  you  can  score  a  run  to  the  lamp-post  and 
back  before  the  "cat"  is  fielded  in.  But  you  must  act 
quickly  and  keep  one  eye  in  the  back  of  your  head,  for  the 
streets  are  fuU  of  danger. 

The  cripple,  after  waiting  for  the  express-wagon  to 
pass,  knocked  a  beautiful  fly  through  the  hostile  lines. 
The  fielders  let  out  the  terrific  screech  of  New  York  boy- 
hood at  play.     The  cripple  dashed  for  the  lamp-post. 

Muriel's  car  caught  him  in  the  air  as  if  it  were  the  club 
of  a  giant  batsman.  It  sent  him  sprawling  into  space 
and  then  slithering  shapelessly  till  the  curbstone  checked 
him. 

The  car  came  to  a  stop  as  Muriel's  scream  brought  the 
women  to  the  windows  and  doors  all  along  the  block.  Her 
voice  was  a  different  noise  in  the  familiar  clamor  of  their 
street.  Immediately  people  began  to  run  and  jabber  and 
gesticulate  with  menace. 

The  chauffeur  turned  to  Muriel:  "There  is  no  police- 
man in  sight,  Miss.     Shall  I  make  a  run  for  it?" 

Muriel  was  tempted  almost  beyond  resistance,  but  she 
shook  her  head.  A  glimpse  at  that  pitiful  heap  on  the 
ground  denied  her  the  right  to  escape. 

She  was  about  to  get  down  and  pick  liim  up  when  a 
cobblestone  struck  the  car,  splintering  the  glass  of  the 

60 


EMPTY    POCKE IS 

wind-shield.  ,A  moment  later  another  stone  was  flting. 
This  one  hit  Muriel  in  the  forehead.  A  mob  was  gather- 
ing to  demand  revenge. 

Muriel  had  run  into  life.  She  was  going  to  know 
New  York.  She  was  going  to  learn  the  importance  of 
empty  pockets  that  seem  full,  but  prove  empty  when 
too  great  need  arises;  of  pockets  that  are  empty  be- 
cause they  leak  gold  faster  than  the  most  amiable  fairies 
can  replenish  them;  and  of  pockets  that  are  empty  be- 
cause the  coppers  that  drip  into  them  must  be  clutched 
out  instantly  to  bribe  a  little  longer  delay  from  the  bailiffs 
of  ill-fortune. 

In  the  most  roimdabout  way  she  was  going  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  Perry  Merithew.  An  hour  or  two  ago  he 
had  passed  through  her  sky  like  an  angel  mounted  on  an 
iron  steed.  But  it  was  this  encoxmter  with  the  crippled 
street  brat  that  brought  her  into  the  sphere  of  Perry 
Merithew  and  involved  her  in  his  disaster.  If,  indeed, 
she  had  been  a  little  less  brave  and  a  little  less  tender  she 
might  have  escaped  knowing  Perry  Merithew  for  years. 
If  she  had  told  her  chauffeiir  to  put  on  full  speed  and  run 
away  from  the  scene  of  this  accident  she  would  have 
unwittingly  run  away  from  almost  all  that  makes  up  this 
book.  And  all  the  lives  of  all  the  people  in  it  would  have 
run  otherwise.  On  such  little  threads  of  decision  hang 
the  destinies  of  the  world. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NEVER  again  in  her  existence,  perhaps,  would  young 
Muriel  Schuyler  be  quite  so  amazed  as  she  was  then. 

Without  an  enemy  in  the  worid,  without  knowledge  of  a 
soul  that  had  ever  hated  her  or  tried  to  harm  her,  sur- 
rounded always  with  luxury  and  protection,  just  landed 
from  her  father's  yacht,  and  motoring  quietly  to  his  town 
home,  she  found  herself  in  one  astounding  moment  sur- 
rotmded  by  a  fierce  mob  of  men  and  women  accusing  her  of 
the  murder  of  a  crippled  boy. 

The  boy  had  leaped  straight  out  of  nothing  into  the 
wheels.  The  mob  had  sprung  up  through  the  asphalt 
by  an  evil  incantation.  The  anger,  the  bloodthirst,  the 
roaring  frenzy  had  come  from  nowhere.  And  from  no- 
where had  come  the  rock  that  suddenly  cut  into  her 
temple. 

The  blow  dazed  her  hardly  so  much  as  the  abrupt 
transformation  of  a  street  full  of  oblivious  strangers  into 
a  riot  of  enemies. 

Her  lips  were  parted  in  stupefaction;  her  eyes  wide 
with  cloudy  wonder.  A  listless  hand  went  automatically 
to  her  forehead,  and  came  down  again  with  an  impression 
of  blood  on  her  hair  and  now  on  her  gloves. 

Muriel  did  not  know  how  the  hearts  of  these  people  had 
been  wrung  with  the  imending  toll  of  children's  lives 
levied  by  the  traffic  of  the  streets.  The  ancient  Athenians 
mourned  because  they  had  to  send  each  year  to  Crete 
seven  lads  and  seven  virgins  to  be  devoured  by  the 
Minotaur.  Among  the  poor  of  New  York  the  motor- 
Minotaurs  go  bellowing,  himting  down  and  goring  their 

62 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

own  prey.  More  than  a  hundred  children  a  year  are 
killed  in  the  streets.  The  horse-drawn  vehicles  destroy 
many  of  these,  but  the  automobiles,  being  newer  and 
swifter,  receive  the  greater  hatred.  When  they  can,  the 
people  take  their  own  revenge  of  the  ruthless  or  luckless 
drivers,  and  sometimes  it  needs  quick  work  and  hard  for 
the  police  to  save  them  from  death. 

Miiriel's  chauffeur,  Jacques  Pamy  (whom  her  father 
had  brought  over  from  France  with  the  car  he  had  bought 
there),  had  the  imsiirpassed  fearlessness  of  the  Frenchman 
of  our  day.  And,  being  French,  he  was  used  to  the  sudden 
formation  of  mobs.     But  he  was  handicapped  now. 

The  moment's  delay  while  he  waited  for  Muriel's  con- 
sent to  escape  had  filled  the  street  with  people.  Ahead 
and  behind  wagons  of  all  sorts  had  paused,  cutting  oflE 
advance  or  retreat.  The  flying  splinters  of  glass  from  the 
shattered  wind-shield  slashed  him  about  the  face  and 
hands.  But  he  stood  up  in  front  of  his  young  mistress  to 
protect  her  as  best  he  could.  And  he  howled  at  the 
howling  crowd.  His  eloquence  was  limited.  His  English 
was  small,  and  his  enemies  could  not  imderstand  his 
French.  But  Muriel  could;  and  he  was  afraid  to  use  the 
expressions  that  came  first  to  mind. 

Still  he  sheltered  her  and  jabbered  and  gesticulated 
till  a  large  boy  named  Tomsy  O'Kim  climbed  on  the  foot- 
board back  of  him  and  broke  a  cat-bat  over  his  head. 
Then  Pamy  collapsed  across  his  steering-wheel. 

A  loyal  servant  deserves  a  loyal  master,  and  Muriel, 
finding  her  chauffeur  struck  down,  felt  her  regret  change 
to  wrath.  She  stood  up  in  her  turn  to  shelter  Jacques 
Pamy  and  she  was  like  a  young  hawk  for  ferocity,  glaring 
defiance  while  the  red  drops  trickled  down  her  cheek. 
Then  she  saw  across  the  heads  and  the  waving  sedge  of 
arms  and  fists  a  little  group  centered  round  the  victim  of 
the  collision. 

Those  in  whom  mercy  is  more  instant  than  wrath  had 
gathered  there.     Muriel  saw  the  face  of  the  child,  all  the 

63 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

whiter  for  the  streaks  of  dirt.  She  forgot  her  anger  and 
her  danger  in  a  swift  remorse  for  what  she  had  not  caused. 
She  fell  to  \vringing  her  hands  and  ineptly  maundering: 

"Oh,  isn't  it  pitiful!  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!  I'm  so  sorry! 
Oh,  isn't  it  pitiful!" 

There  is  nothing  harder  than  to  attack  one  who  does 
not  resist  or  protest  or  run.  And  Muriel  was  young  and 
pretty,  and  fortunately  no  policeman  appeared,  for  in  the 
heart  of  the  Gas-house  District  a  policeman  to  fight  adds 
the  further  zest  of  an  old  feud. 

The  boy  with  the  splintered  bat  could  not  strike  her. 
The  ferocious  women  crowding  against  the  wheels  ceased 
shouting  of  murrains  and  murder-mobiles.  They  began 
to  mimible  one  to  another: 

"It's  not  her  fahlt,  annyhow."  "She  never  done  it  of 
her  own."  "It's  hurted  she  is,  too."  "Only  a  gerl  and 
meant  no  harm."  "It's  the  cheffure's  doin's,  not  hers." 
"Thim  boys  is  ahl  the  toime  joompin'  under  the  wheels." 
"There's  no  keepin'  them  ahf  the  streets  whatever." 
"They  do  be  leppin'  into  throuble  the  day  through." 

Muriel  had  not  noted  that  the  storm  had  died  out  of  the 
surf.  But  she  saw  that  her  victim  was  beginning  to  move, 
to  roll  his  head  in  pain.     She  felt  that  she  must  go  to  him. 

She  opened  the  door  of  the  car  and  dropped  to  the 
ground.  She  might  have  been  in  the  lobby  at  the  opera 
from  the  way  she  repeated  her  polite  "Pardon  me"  and 
"May  I  pass,  please?" 

The  crowd  melted  aside  like  water  whist  with  wonder, 
then  poured  after  in  her  wake.  She  made  to  the  boy's 
side  and  gently  persuaded  his  body  from  the  awkward 
hands  about  him. 

She  set  one  knee  on  the  fo\il  pavement  and  leaned  him 
against  her  other  knee,  and,  producing  a  ridictdously  fine 
and  tiny  handkerchief,  moistened  it  at  her  lips  and  tried 
to  cleanse  that  ancient  little  face  of  its  immemorial  dirt. 

She  kept  saying: 

64 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"It's  too  bad,  it's  just  too  bad,"  and  then,  "Covildn't 
some  one  get  me  some  water,  please?" 

There  was  a  panic  of  obedience.  Tomsy  O'Eom  ran 
and  snatched  a  tin  pail  of  beer  from  a  Httle  girl  who  was 
taking  it  home  to  her  despondent  parents.  He  was  well 
scratched  and  kicked  in  the  shins,  but  he  gave  the  young 
Amazon  a  back-handed  swipe  against  a  hydrant  and  she 
pursued  him  no  farther.  Tomsy  darted  into  a  small 
deserted  "French  laundry,"  whose  Irish  laundresses  were 
out  with  the  mob.  He  emptied  the  pail  into  himself, 
filled  it  with  water  at  a  faucet,  and  ran  off,  leaving  the 
faucet  gushing. 

He  was  the  first  to  arrive.  A  moment  later  Muriel 
was  surroimded  by  all  manner  of  water-carriers  with  all 
manner  of  vessels,  mugs,  pitchers,  pails,  hats,  schooners. 
There  was  even  one  basket  of  water. 

She  soused  her  handkerchief  in  Tomsy's  pail  and  mopped 
the  little  face  well.  It  seemed  to  come  out  of  a  shadow 
into  the  sun.  It  was  right  white  under  the  protecting 
layer  of  earth. 

Muriel  had  learned  what  to  do  in  many  an  accident, 
for  the  rich  adventure  much  peril  and  encounter  much 
injury.  She  had  been  thrown  from  horses,  and  her 
friends  had  been  tossed  into  unconsciousness  times  un- 
numbered from  saddles  and  traps  and  runabouts.  And 
there  had  been  mishaps  on  her  father's  country  place. 
She  had  helped  Italian  road-builders  when  they  were 
knocked  over  by  fragments  of  rock  from  dynamite  blasts. 
She  had  helped  the  sailors  on  her  father's  yacht  when  they 
fell  down  a  hatchway  or  were  hurt  in  the  engine-room. 

She  had  acquired  a  knack  for  first  aid  and  the  stomach 
of  self-control.  But  she  was  a  little  sick  now  because 
she  felt  to  blame,  and  because  her  victim  was  so  grotesque. 
Nature  had  been  harsh  with  him  before  she  came  along 
to  batter  him  to  sleep. 

As  she  huddled  the  body  in  her  arm,  and  swabbed  the 
soiled  wounds,  she  asked: 

65 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

"Who  is  he?    Where's  his  poor  mother?" 

Tomsy  O'Kim  answered  her: 

"Hanigan  his  name  is,  lady — Happy  Hanigan  we  call 
um.  He  don't  belong  round  here.  He's  a  newsy  from 
down-town." 

The  victim  immediately  lost  prestige  and  sympathy  from 
the  crowd.  What  right  had  he  for  to  be  getting  hurted 
in  their  street?  And  making  the  nice  girleen  get  her 
pretty  clothes  that  dirted  up? 

Finally  Happy  Hanigan  opened  his  little  eyes  and 
screwed  them  about  in  angry  wonder.  He  could  not  see 
Muriel's  downcast  face,  for  the  sun  was  in  his  eyes.  He 
blinked  and  wriggled  and  then  he  opened  his  enormous 
mouth  to  say: 

"Whatahell's  a  matter,  huh?" 

His  language  was  abominably  offensive  to  the  ladies  in 
the  circle.  Strangely  enough,  Muriel  hugged  him  and 
smiled  and  laughed  a  little.  She  was  glad  to  have  him  back 
on  any  terms.    Happy  winced  at  the  pressure  and  growled : 

"Lea'  me  loose,  dammit." 

One  of  the  spectators  not  long  on  this  side  of  the  Irish 
pond  protested:  "Take  shame  to  you  for  such  worruds 
to  her  honor." 

"Don't  scold  him,"  said  Muriel,  and  bent  over  to  pro- 
tect him  from  blame.  Her  face  made  a  shadow  now,  and 
he  could  see  her.  The  sunlight  crinkled  through  her  hair 
in  a  halo.  He  saw  that  she  was  beautiful,  and  now  at  last 
his  big  mouth  woimd  into  the  famous  grin  that  had  won 
him  his  title  of  nobility. 

"Cheese!"  he  sighed.  "Who's  de  swell  dame  dat's 
noissin'  me  now?  I  guess  I  must  'a'  croaked  and  it's 
a  angel — a  red-headed  angel." 

Muriel  stamped  a  hasty  kiss  on  a  dean  spot  she  had 
achieved  and  lifted  him  to  his  feet.  He  groaned  anew 
now  and  his  legs  dangled  so  crookedly  that  she  set  him 
down  again.  She  turned  giddy  with  the  dread  that  she 
had  broken  his  poor  bones. 

66 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"I  must  get  you  to  the  hospital."  she  said.  "Where's 
the  nearest  one?" 

Happy  fought  her  arms  loose  and  roared: 

"Nah,  yuh  dahn't!  Yuh  dahn't  git  me  to  no  horse- 
spital." 

Muriel  stared  at  him.  She  had  not  realized  that  the 
poor  are  a  little  less  fond  of  the  surgeon's  knives  than  the 
rich.  It  is  only  natural  that  they  should  receive  less 
courtesy,  since  they  are  less  courteous  and  more  afraid 
and  resistant;  they  come  in  crowds;  time  is  money; 
anesthetics  are  too  expensive  to  be  lavished,  and  the 
most  eminent  physicians  are  giving  their  services  for 
nothing  but  love  of  htimanity  and  their  own  craft.  Like 
most  other  donations,  theirs  are  greeted  with  susoicion 
and  resentment. 

Muriel  tried  to  convince  the  boy  that  it  was  for  his 
own  good,  but  she  was  not  old  enough  to  realize  that  the 
poorest  of  all  recommendations  is  to  say  that  a  thing  is 
for  one's  own  good. 

Meanwhile  at  last  a  policeman  was  darting  that  way. 
Sauntering  along  Second  Avenue,  he  had  observed  the 
swarm  in  the  side-street  and  had  made  for  it  forthwith. 

He  had  no  knowledge  of  what  he  should  find  there. 
But  his  place  was  in  the  thick  of  it.  He  treated  the 
crowd  with  absolute  impartiality  of  violence  toward 
all  ages  and  both  sexes.  He  swept  them  aside  with  both 
hands  and  came  rather  swimming  than  nmning.  He  was 
cruelly  disappointed  to  find  nothing  more  exdting  than  a 
newsboy  bumped  by  an  automobile.  He  knew  Happy 
at  a  glance.  He  had  chased  him  dozens  of  times,  called 
him  names,  and  been  called  names  by  him  from  a  distance. 
On  occasions  he  had  arrested  Happy  for  playing  in  the 
streets,  a  necessary  diversion  necessarily  made  a  crime 
for  the  children's  own  sake. 

Now  Officer  McGlashan  fotmd  Happy  leaning  on  a 
young  woman  suspiciously  well  dressed.  It  was  sus- 
picious for  a  yoimg  woman  to  be  too  well  dressed  along 

67 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

here.  Besides,  by  this  time  Muriel's  frock  was  so  flecked 
and  her  hair  so  disordered  and  her  face  so  unlike  itself 
that  McGlashan's  first  thought  of  her  was  based  on 
experience  and  observation.  He  assumed  that  she  was 
a  wrong  one  who  had  wandered  in  her  cups  and  fallen 
into  a  battle.  It  was  not  his  fault  if  such  things  happened 
so  often  that  he  grew  to  expect  them.  He  began  with 
his  usual  formula: 

"Well,  well,  well!  What's  the  matter  now?  What's 
the  matter  heer?"  He  laid  his  hand  on  Muriel's  shoulder 
not  altogether  without  pity,  not  altogether  without  con- 
tempt. Muriel  looked  down  at  his  hand  with  such  sur- 
prise that  he  took  it  away  quickly.  Her  voice  and  her 
language  siirprised  him  further. 

"My  car  ran  into  this  poor  child,  officer,  and  I'm 
ever  so  sorry.  I  can  never  forgive  myself.  I  was  about 
to  take  him  to  the  nearest  hospital.  Perhaps  you  could 
direct  me." 

Her  dialect  was  four  avenues  higher  than  he  expected. 
He  could  only  sputter  with  a  last  flare  of  dying  superiority: 

"And  who's  you,  that's  goin'  to  do  so  much?" 

"I'm  Miss  Schuyler." 

"  Miss  Schuyler  is  it?    And  where  might  you  live?" 

He  whipped  out  his  note-book  to  record  the  incident 
in  his  log  of  the  street.  When  Miuiel  gave  him  the 
number,  his  pencil  and  his  jaw  both  dropped. 

"That  would  be  Jacob  Schuyler's  house.  You're  no 
dahter  of  Jacob  Schuyler?" 

If  he  had  asked  her  was  she  the  daughter  of  King 
Jarge  of  England  he  could  not  have  been  more  amazed 
when  she  nodded  yes.  From  the  equally  astounded  circle 
came  a  sigh  of  awe,  and  one  reverent : 

"My  Gawd!" 

Some  of  the  women  immediately  began  to  take  note  of 
the  cut  of  her  suit.  It  was  so  simple  that  the  design  could 
easily  be  imitated,  if  not  the  fabric.  Even  Happy  felt  the 
eminence  of  the  situation.     He  made  to  withdraw  from 

68 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

the  arm  that  nestled  him  imder  false  pretenses,  but  Muriel 
clutched  him  tighter,  and  said: 

"What  are  we  to  do  with  this  poor  child?" 

Officer  McGlashan  glanced  at  her  and  accepted  the 
flattering  "we." 

"Well,  I  suppo-ose  we  might — at  leasht  we'd  betther — " 
He  looked  at  Happy.  He  was  more  used  to  talking  to  the 
likes  of  him.  He  stormed:  "And  for  you,  you  limb! 
What  were  you  up  to  that  you're  blunderin'  into  people's 
cairs?" 

Happy  was  about  to  explain  that  he  was  merely  playing 
cat,  but  he  remembered  in  the  nick  of  time  that  playing 
cat  was  a  misdemeanor,  and  he  answered : 

"'Ain't  I  got  a  right  to  cross  the  street?" 

"Nah,  you  'ain't  got  a  right  to  cross  the  street!"  thun- 
dered McGlashan.  "This  ain't  even  your  street.  You'd 
best  be  lightin'  out  o'  this.  And  don't  let  me  see  you 
round  heer  anny  more  or  I'll  fan  you  hairder  than  the 
cair  did." 

Happy  made  a  meek  effort  to  scramble  to  his  feet  and 
do  his  usual  vanishing  trick,  but  his  legs  wavered,  and 
Muriel  gathered  him  in  again. 

"  Dont'  be  cross  with  him;  he's  terribly  hurt!" 

From  the  safe  niche  of  her  embrace  Happy  leered  at 
the  policeman,  and  said,  "Yah!" 

Then  the  murmurous  crowd  heard  the  familiar  hurried 
knell  of  the  ambulance.  An  alley  opened  magically  and 
a  Belle vue  Hospital  motor  rolled  up.  Some  one  had 
taken  pride  in  simimoning  it.  From  its  end  gate  dropped 
a  young  interne  in  a  white  suit. 

Muriel  noted  first  his  immaculateness,  and  envied  it  and 
admired  it.  It  is  the  quality,  some  say,  that  women  like 
first  in  a  man. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  surgeon   noted   first   the  abrasion   on  Muriel's 
forehead.      He  put  his  hand  out  toward   it.      She 
winced  away  and  moved  Happy  toward  him,  smiling. 

"This  is  the  patient,  doctor." 

Clinton  Worthing,  M.D.,  had  commenced  doctor  so  re- 
cently that  he  still  thrilled  to  the  title — and  what  nobler 
title  is  there?  He  was  young  enough — and  old  enough — 
to  be  more  interested  in  pretty  girls  than  in  crippled  boys. 
But  he  obeyed  Muriel's  behest,  and  his  fingers  went  like 
ten  scouts  over  the  bruises  on  Happy's  head.  Happy's 
pride  hurt  almost  more  than  his  contusions. 

The  surgeon  opened  his  hand-bag,  a  compact  little 
dispensary  in  itself,  and  whisked  forth  cotton  swabs, 
sterile  bandages,  and  adhesive  plasters.  His  hands  shut- 
tled back  and  forth  with  the  deft  speed  of  a  woman 
crocheting. 

Officer  McGlashan  did  the  honors:  "Docther,  this  is 
Miss  Schuyler — old  Jake  Schuyler's  dahter,  you  knaw." 

The  doctor  threw  her  a  hasty  glance  as  his  fingers  went 
on  weaving  the  bandage.  He  grinned,  assuming  that  the 
policeman  was  joking.  Next  to  a  reporter,  an  ambulance 
doctor  has  fewer  illusions  than  any  one  else  in  the  world. 

Muriel  bent  over  him  anxiously  as  he  bandaged  a  scraped 
wrist.  She  murmured,  "I — I'm  afraid  one  of  his  legs  is 
broken." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head :  "  If  it  had  been  he'd  have  let 
me  know  soon  enough." 

"But  it's  all — ^all —  It's  not  straight,"  Muriel  per- 
sisted, as  tactfully  as  she  could. 

70 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

The  doctor  lifted  Happy  to  his  feet  and  a  glance  led  her 
to  believe  that  what  she  had  thought  to  be  a  fracture  was 
a  congenital  malformation.     She  said: 

"I  knew  a  little  girl  who  had  that,  and  they  brought 
over  a  great  European  speciaHst  for  her  and  cured  her. 
Why  didn't  this  boy's  parents — " 

"This  boy's  parents  are  not  importing  specialists,  I'm 
afraid.    They  come  rather  high,  you  know." 

"But  I  should  think  they  could  save  up  enough  or 
borrow  enough  for  as  important  a  thing  as  that." 

The  doctor  smiled  again  with  a  pleasant  sort  of  pity. 
"The  very  poor  can  neither  save  nor  borrow." 

"  Isn't  there  any  place  where  it  coiild  be  done?" 

"There's  the  Orthopaedic  Hospital,  where  they'd  do  it  for 
nothing." 

"Then  why  in  Heaven's  name  haven't  they  taken  him 
there?" 

"You  don't  know  much  about  the  poor,  do  you?  They 
get  so  tired  and  so  dejected  they  don't  want  to  do  any- 
thing but  rest."  He  spoke  to  Happy,  whose  grided  skin 
he  was  sterilizing  and  bandaging:  "Did  your  people  ever 
take  you  to  a  hospital?" 

Happy  smiled:  "  Me  mudder  done  it  once  and  a  big  guy 
dere  wanted  to  harness  me  up  like  I  was  a  horse  and 
wagon;  but  I  says, '  Nix  on  de  rough  stuff,  doc.  Me  bones 
is  me  own  and  I'll  keep  what  I  got.  I  git  roimd,  don't  I? 
And  I  sell  as  many  papes  as  most  of  dese  guys.  Me 
mudder  needs  de  coin  I  toin  in.'  " 

Muriel  said,  "Wouldn't  you  be  willing  to  take  a  little 
vacation  now  and  get  yourself  all  straightened  out  and — " 

Happy  pushed  the  suggestion  aside  with  the  flat  of  his 
palm  and  a  phrase  of  simple  dignity: 

"Nuttin'  doin',  lady." 

Muriel  shook  her  head  and  the  doctor  smiled  at  her. 
He  knew  the  people. 

When  he  had  finished  a  cursory  treatment  of  Happy 
he  said: 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Now,  young  man,  hop  into  the  'bus  and  we'll  give  you 
a  lift  to  Bellevue." 

"Not  on  your  life!"  said  Happy.  "You'll  not  take  me 
to  no  Bellavoo." 

"But  you'll  need  a  little  rest.  You've  had  more  of  a 
shock  than  you  realize  yet." 

"  Shock  yoiu"  grandmudder.     I'll  take  me  rest  at  home." 

"Then  we'll  send  you  home." 

"Not  in  one  of  dem  amblanshes  wit'  a  bell  on  it.  It 
would  t'row  me  mudder  into  a  fit  did  she  hear  it." 

"Then  I  can  take  you  home  in  my  car,"  Muriel  sug- 
gested, and  Happy  graciously  consented. 

"Oh,  all  right." 

The  doctor  rose  to  his  feet  and  put  his  hand  out  again 
toward  Muriel: 

"I'll  have  a  look  at  that  forehead  now,"  he  said. 

Again  she  retreated:  "Would  you  mind  seeing  to  my 
chauffeur  first?     I'm  afraid  he's  in  trouble." 

She  led  the  way  through  the  yielding  crowd.  Jacques 
Pamy  was  sitting  up  now,  but  clinging  to  the  wheel  as  if 
the  pavement  were  reeling  imder  him.  The  blood  was 
chugging  like  another  engine  in  his  head,  where  a  welt 
was  growing  faster  than  a  mushroom. 

When  he  saw  Muriel  returning  he  hastened  to  descend 
and  open  the  door  for  her.  But  he  had  to  ding  to  it 
dizzily. 

Officer  McGlashan  exclaimed,  "Who  done  that  to  you?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Jacques. 

The  crowd  knew,  but  did  not  tell.  Young  Tomsy 
O'Kim,  however,  seemed  to  lose  interest  in  the  affair; 
at  least  he  turned  and  sauntered  to  the  comer  of  the  street, 
then  broke  into  a  run. 

The  surgeon  made  stire  that  Pamy's  skull  was  not 
fractured,  and  proceded  to  examine  the  scalp.  His 
strong  hands  were  defter  than  a  French  dressmaker's  as 
his  pectiliar  scissors  snipped  off  the  clotted  cvirls,  to 
Pamy's    bitter    regret.    With    delicate    taps    of    cotton 

72 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

pledgets  he  cleared  away  the  blood  and  disclosed  the 
clean  furrow  in  the  welt.  Muriel  was  fascinated  instead 
of  sickened  by  the  exquisite  speed,  and  she  murmured: 

"What  a  glorious  thing  to  be  able  to  help  people  in 
pain!" 

"  Think  so  ?"  he  mumbled. 

"There's  no  other  knowledge  worth  as  much  as  that." 

"Think  not?"  he  said,  with  a  little  less  brusqueness  as 
he  fixed  a  bandage  on  the  broken  scalp. 

"And  now  it's  your  turn." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  she  murmured. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  nmning-board. 

She  sat  down.  She  had  not  realized  how  weak  her 
knees  were  tiU  she  relieved  them  of  their  responsibilities. 
She  felt  pretty  miserable  and  forlorn.  And  she  was 
glad  to  have  the  expert  hands  of  a  doctor  grooming  her 
temple. 

It  was  strange  to  think  of  herself  there  in  the  middle 
of  the  street,  that  street,  surrounded  by  such  a  crowd, 
with  an  ambulance  surgeon  mending  her  woimd.  The 
crowd  was  roaring  as  gentle  as  a  sucking-dove  now. 
The  fierce  housewives  were  conferring  about  her:  "It's 
the  sweet  t'thing  she  is."  "And  goin'  for  to  bring  Happy 
home  in  the  grand  ottymobyl."  "A  proud  day  for  Mrs. 
Hanigan  that  her  son's  brought  back  in  the  like  of  that." 

While  the  surgeon  was  at  work  he  had  not  failed  to 
observe  that  the  door  of  the  car  was  marked  with  the 
initials  J.  S.  They  were  small  letters,  but  they  carried  a 
big  message. 

Dr.  Worthing  could  not  have  been  human  and  failed  to 
experience  a  certain  added  interest  in  so  expensive  a 
patient  met  in  so  cheap  a  street. 

He  was  not  exactly  surprised  to  find  that  her  skin 
was  not  of  gold-leaf,  yet  he  could  hardly  convince  himself 
that  a  girl  could  live  in  the  sun  of  such  luxury  and  be  so 
modestly  clad,  so  simple  of  manner,  so  pathetically  pretty. 

Muriel  was  even  more  thrilled  than  the  surgeon  was. 

i  73 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

He  had  come  from  the  mob  like  a  young  hero  out  of  a  cloud. 
He  had  amazed  her  with  his  technic  and  his  business-like 
philanthropy.  He  bossed  her  about  a  bit,  too;  gave  her 
things  to  hold,  and  told  her  to  sit  down. 

Muriel  was  just  arriving  at  her  hour  for  liking  to  be 
bossed.  She  was  surprised  to  find  herself  almost  delighting 
in  her  submissiveness ;  it  was  a  novelty  indeed  for  one  who 
had  bossed  everybody  else — servants,  parents,  chums,  and 
attendant  squires. 

Her  buoyant  health  had  rarely  placed  her  in  a  doctor's 
power.  And  never  had  the  doctor  been  anything  but  old 
and  plain.  This  yoimg  knight  ambulant,  with  his  lancet 
at  rest,  came  to  her  in  a  suit  of  white  armor.  She  trembled 
with  delicious  dread  at  his  proximity.  His  ministrations 
were  not  unlike  caresses,  and  when  he  put  aside  her  hair 
and  bathed  the  little  woimd  on  her  brow  she  blushed  with 
pretty  shame.  She  was  amazed  to  feel  so  poignantly  the 
tactile  fire  of  his  finger-tips,  and  cast  down  her  eyes  in  a 
curious  distress. 

And  he  caught  fire  from  her.  He  was  awkward,  though 
he  wished  to  be  supremely  dextrous.  He  was  not  so  swift, 
either,  at  his  task,  though  this  was  not  entirely  uninten- 
tional. When  he  was  about  to  touch  her  forehead  with  the 
tincture  she  drew  away,  protesting: 

"It  will  stain." 

"It's  the  best  sterilizer  there  is,"  he  answered,  "and 
your  hair  will  cover  it.  They're  nearly  the  same  color," 
he  laughed,  brokenly,  holding  the  phial  under  her  eyes. 

"Iodine!    Thanks!"  she  gasped,  indignantly. 

"It's  a  beautiful  color  in  the  light,"  he  explained,  but 
she  would  not  look.  She  wanted  to  be  more  indignant 
than  she  was,  at  his  premature  informality.  He  realized 
his  own  impetuosity  at  the  same  moment,  gulped,  "I  beg 
your  pardon!"  and  glared  at  the  understanding  mob 
ferociously. 

When  he  had  cleansed  and  sealed  the  unimportant 
laceration  of  her  important  forehead  his  assurance  that 

74 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

she  must  be  made  of  delicate  fiber  was  revealed  in  his 
anxiety. 

"You'd  better  be  getting  to  your  home,  hadn't  you?" 

"Not  till  the  poor  boy  is  safe  in  his." 

"Where  does  he  live?" 

"I  don't  know.    Where  do  you  live — Mr.  Hanigan?" 

Happy  had  swelled  up  like  a  heated  balloon  at  the 
prospect  of  the  ride  home;  the  "Mr."  almost  exploded 
him.  He  had  to  be  asked  twice  where  he  lived  before  he 
could  answer: 

"Batavia  Street." 

"Is  it  far?" 

"Not  in  one  o'  dem  t'ings." 

"Then  we'd  better  be  starting.  Do  I  look  fit  to  be 
seen?" 

Dr.  Worthing  was  tempted  to  cry,  "Fit  to  be  seen  in 
heaven!"  but  he  thought  better  of  it.  Miiriel  set  to  dust- 
ing her  skirts,  and  she  drew  a  lock  of  hair  over  her  battle- 
scar. 

"How's  that?"  she  laughed,  and  regretted  again  her 
surprising  friendliness  with  this  stranger. 

He  dared  not  tell  her  how  it  was. 

"Come  on,  Mr.  Hanigan,"  Muriel  cried,  and  with  the 
aid  of  the  surgeon  helped  the  boy  to  a  seat  in  the  tonneau. 
His  shapeless  awkwardness  wrenched  her  heart  again.  It 
was  intolerable  that  he  should  hobble  so  helplessly  all  his 
days.  She  knitted  her  brows  as  she  put  out  her  hand 
to  the  surgeon: 

"Thank  you  ever  so  much,  Dr. — Dr. — " 

' '  Worthing— Clinton  Worthing. ' ' 

"Dr.  Worthing,"  she  finished,  and  reclaimed  her  hand. 
She  bowed  to  the  beaming  McGlashan. 

"Thank  you,  officer.  Good-by."  She  bowed  to  the 
glowing  crowd.     "Thank  you,  everybody." 

As  she  was  about  to  get  in  and  join  Happy  (who  was 
trying  to  look  as  if  he  owned  the  car  and  already  warning 
his  late  fellows  to  gittahell  ofTen  dat  step  and  where  did 

75 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

(ley  link  dey  was)  Muriel  beckoned  the  doctor  and  spoke 
to  him  in  a  low  voice: 

"It  seems  inhuman  to  let  the  poor  boy  go  on  through 
life  such  a  cripple.  There  ought  to  be  some  way  to  get 
him  cured." 

"The  city  would  do  what  it  could  for  him,  but  it's 
long  and  painful  and  costly." 

"  I'd  be  so  glad  to  pay  anything  it  might  cost." 

"That. would  help,  of  course." 

She  enraptured  him  by  saying:  " Could  you  fix  him  up 
at  your  hospital?  It  would  be  nice  to  have  him  in  charge 
of  one  who — who — " 

She  didn't  know  just  what  shoiild  follow  that  "who." 

He  relieved  her:  "We  couldn't  treat  him  at  Bellevue, 
but  there  are  other  hospitals." 

"How  could  I  find  out  the  best  place  and  get  him 
there?     Vm  so  ignorant." 

"I  could  arrange  it  for  you." 

"Oh,  if  you  only  would  I'd  be  so  grateful!" 

"It  would  be  a  pleastire,  I'm  sure." 

"How  soon  could  you  look  it  up  and  let  me  know?" 

He  coiild  have  told  her  offhand,  but  he  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  of  another  meeting.     So  he  said: 

"Some  time  to-day.  I'U  be  off  duty  in  the  late  after- 
noon." 

"Oh,  will  you?  You  could  telephone  me — or  it  might 
be  better  to  talk  it  over.  You  cotildn't  come  up  to  the 
house,  could  you?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  cotild.    Yes,  certainly — " 

"That  would  be  splendid.  You  could  have  tea  with 
me,  perhaps." 

He  covild  only  nod  and  try  to  keep  from  swallowing  the 
lump  of  sugar  in  his  throat. 

"Fine!"  she  cried.     "At  about  half  past  four  or  five?" 

He  bowed.  The  asphalt  was  oscillating  under  him. 
He  could  hardly  remember  his  dignity. 

To  Muriel  he  should  have  been  merely  a  very  kind  and 

76 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

very  nice  young  man  who  would  be  useM  in  getting 
something  done  that  she  wanted  done.  She  had  always 
been  surrounded  by  servants,  and  she  was  always  gracious 
and  grateful  to  them.  She  had  acquired  a  habit  of  setting 
other  people  to  work,  not  because  she  was  lazy,  but 
because  she  was  busy.  The  rich  have  a  hundred  hands 
to  reach  for  things  and  a  hundred  feet  to  run  errands. 

Muriel  tried  to  tell  herself  that  she  had  no  more  idea  of 
kindling  a  flame  in  the  yotmg  surgeon's  heart  than  of  en- 
couraging every  yoimg  fellow  she  asked  to  run  and  get  her 
tennis-racquet.  She  wanted  to  straighten  out  Happy 
Hanigan,  and  she  would  use  the  time,  money,  and  skill  of 
anybody  that  could  help  her. 

Miss  Schuyler  said,  haughtily:  "Thank  you  a  thousand 
times.  At  half  past  four  then !  Good-by."  But  the  girl 
Muriel  beamed  on  him  through  soft  eyes  like  a  Southern 
beauty  rewarding  a  serenader  beneath  her  lattices. 

Miss  Schuyler  hopped  into  the  car  and  slammed  the 
door  after  her.  She  lavished  on  Happy  the  kindliest 
smile  in  her  repertoire.  But  Muriel  flung  back  one  swift 
sweet  glance  that  deranged  its  victim  and  accomplished 
a  compound  fracture  of  his  peace  of  mind. 

The  young  surgeon  gazed  after  her  and  felt  as  lonely 
in  the  crowd  as  if  he  were  Robinson  Crusoe  cast  ashore. 
He  sighed  to  himself:  "If  only  she  were  a  trained  nurse! 
Or,  better  yet,  if  only  I  were  a  millionaire!" 


CHAPTER  X 

JACQUES  PARNY  perked  an  inqmring  ear  for  direo 
tions.     Muriel  passed  the  query  to  Happy. 

"Where  was  it  you  said  you  lived,  my  dear?" 

"Batavia  Street,  darlin',"  said  Happy,  impudent  with 
glory. 

Mviriel  asked  Jacques  if  he  knew  Batavia  Street.  He 
did  not.     Happy  was  contemptuous  of  such  ignorance. 

"Dem  dagos  don't  know  nuttin'.  Does  he  know 
where  Cherry  Street  is,  den?" 

"Cherie  Strit,"  said  Jacques.  "I  do  not  know  her 
also." 

Happy  turned  away  in  despair.  "Would  he  know 
Brooklyn  Bridge  if  he  run  into  it?" 

Jacques  answered,  "Ah  yes,  those  Brookleen  Breedge, 
I  know  him." 

"Den  move  on  wit'  your  baby-carrage.  It's  right 
near  him,"  said  Happy,  winldng  at  Muriel. 

When  the  baby-carriage  moved  on,  the  boys  and  girls 
began  to  shriek  at  Happy,  as  if  a  fiery  chariot  were  trans- 
lating him.  They  ran  alongside,  dancing  and  shouting, 
and  several  of  them  seemed'  determined  to  earn  them- 
selves rides  by  the  same  disaster  that  had  proved  so 
fortunate  for  him. 

Muriel's  life  had  hitherto  revolved  in  a  glittering  circle. 
Now  it  was  flying  off  at  a  tangent.  That  journey  was 
like  a  condensed  trip  to  foreign  lands,  beginning  with  a 
more  or  less  Irish  region,  passing  through  Hungary,  Bo' 
hemia,  Poland,  Russia,  Roimiania,  Greece,  and  Japan. 

78 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

They  left  behind  the  mysterious  region  where  the 
enormous  gas-tanks  loomed  like  floating  turrets  of  some 
grotesque  architecture,  and  glided  into  a  region  where  the 
people  were  foreign,  the  names  on  the  sign-boards  and  the 
wares  they  offered  foreign,  and  the  advertisements  in  the 
Hebrew  character. 

The  streets  narrowed.  On  the  steps  old  patriarchs, 
bearded  and  skull-capped,  yet  with  very  modem  sleeve- 
supporters,  sat  in  venerable  reveries.  On  the  sidewalks 
the  women  and  children  were  disposed  as  informally  as  if 
in  their  own  rooms.  And  in  the  streets,  too,  the  children 
waddled  about  at  ease. 

Now  and  then  Pamy  must  check  the  car  sharply  while  a 
large-eyed  babe  sucked  its  thumb  in  the  face  of  peril,  till 
its  mother  ran  out  from  among  the  shouting  neighbors  and 
lugged  it  ashore,  glaring  resentfully  at  the  invaders,  but 
yanking  the  child  no  less  resentfully. 

There  were  evidences  enough  of  the  lack  of  riches  in  the 
overcrowding,  the  costumes,  the  things  they  were  buying 
and  selling,  and  the  bedding  bulging  from  the  windows. 
Yet  cheek  by  jowl  with  the  sardine-can  tenements  sat 
every  here  and  there  some  splendid  building  devoted  to 
happiness  or  other  form  of  welfare — a  normal  training- 
institute,  a  hospital,  a  children's  aid  society,  a  bank,  a 
school. 

Parks  were  frequent  here,  and  in  the  open  spaces  chil- 
dren were  playing  games  they  had  had  to  be  taught. 
Muriel  had  heard  something  of  these  breathing-spaces, 
and  remembered  reading  that  many  of  them  replaced 
plague-sores  of  corruption.  When  Mulberry  Bend  and 
Corlears  Hook  had  resisted  the  best  the  police,  the 
preachers,  and  the  health  officers  could  do  in  palliation, 
some  genius  had  proposed  their  complete  elision.  Poul- 
tices, caustics,  and  antiseptics  having  failed,  an  operation 
was  suggested.  The  buildings  were  bought,  razed,  and 
their  spaces  united  into  parks. 

Muriel  thought  that  this  was  about  the  decentest  and 

79 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

happiest  thing  in  human  history.  Good  people  had  passed 
through  here.  Big  hearts  had  taken  thought  for  the  poor, 
busied  themselves  as  their  brothers'  keepers.  These 
buildings,  these  parks  were  like  feathers  fallen  from  angels' 
wings — anonymous  angels,  and  rather  bound  toward 
heaven  than  come  from  there.     Yet  angelic  somehow. 

Muriel  felt  again  that  the  weak  and  the  luckless  were 
in  careful  hands.  She  knew  that  her  father  and  mother 
were  always  giving,  giving,  giving.  First  she  felt  re- 
lieved of  responsibility.  Then  she  felt  an  awakening  to 
it.  Why  should  she  leave  these  tasks  to  others?  If 
everybody  waited  for  somebody  else,  nobody  would  get 
anything  done  for  anybody.  She  must  at  least  take 
from  her  parents  their  charitable  labors. 

Her  heart  seemed  to  cry  out  to  this  opportunity: 

"Let  me  in.  I  want  to  be  useftil  as  that  nice  Dr. 
Worthing  is  useful.  I  have  a  right  to  be  useful.  I  am 
young  and  husky  and  I  have  lots  of  money — or  my  father 
has — and  he  always  gives  me  what  I  want.     Let  me  in!" 

She  resolved  to  plunge  at  once  into  the  crusade.  Youth- 
like she  was  sure  that  she  coiild  accomplish  marvels.  She 
only  hoped  that  she  had  not  reached  the  scene  too  late, 
like  a  volunteer  fireman  who  arrives  after  the  fire  is  out. 
She  was  almost  afraid  that  there  would  be  no  misery  left 
to  her  to  relieve ! 

She  need  not  have  worried  had  she  known  that  the 
ferocious  summer  of  19 13  was  to  be  followed  by  a  fiercer 
winter  of  almost  unequaled  length  and  bitterness,  and 
that  the  hard  times  would  throw  upon  the  one  town  some 
three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men  who  cotild  get  no 
work  to  do;  and  that  after  that  there  was  yet  far  worse 
to  come  another  year. 

As  she  sat  panting  thirstily  and  beaming  with  enthu- 
siasm for  a  career  of  glorious  charity,  Happy  Hanigan  was 
sitting  as  high  as  he  could,  frowning  majestically,  and  try- 
ing to  assume  an  automobile  face.  The  nearest  he  could 
come  to  it  was  the  look  the  judges  wore  in  the  Children's 

80 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Court  when  they  tried  to  glare  more  fiercely  than  they 
felt. 

Suddenly  along  the  entire  length  of  his  mouth  there 
were  signs  of  a  skirmish  between  laughter  and  severity. 
Muriel  smiled  and  asked  him  what  was  troubling  him. 
That  detonated  his  laughter  and  he  snickered: 

"Cheese,  but  I'm  hopin'  me  mudder  'U  be  at  de  windy 
so  's  't  she'll  see  me  roll  up  in  de  band-wagon." 

It  was  rather  tactless  of  Muriel  to  ask,  "Is  this  yotir 
first  ride  in  a  band-wagon?" 

"Oh  no,"  sighed  Happy,  grandiosely,  "I  ride  up-town 
in  a  newspaper-truck  now  an'  den,  and  I  got  a  friend 
drives  a  brewery-truck,  an'  o'  course  I  sneak  on  behind  of 
a  taxicab  now  and  den.  Dis  is  me  foist  spin  in  a  open- 
faced  truck,  dough.  Oh,  I've  rode  in  artemobiles  a  lot — 
not  countin'  our  own  horse  an'  wagon,  o'  coiirse." 

Muriel  exposed  again  a  strange  indeHcacy  of  surprise. 
She  was  snob  enough  to  feel  Mr.  Hanigan's  rise  in  the  so- 
cial scale.  One  cannot  possess  a  horse  and  wagon  and  be 
entirely  negligible.  She  asked  with  more  respect,  "Oh, 
you  own  a  horse,  do  you?" 

"Sure  we  own  a  horse.    Ain't  me  fadder  a  truckman?" 

"Really?" 

"Sure  he  is.     He's  got  a  license  and  aU." 

"And  what  does  he — er — truck?" 

"Oh,  junk,  and  rags,  and  ice-cream,  and  people's 
foiniture  when  dey  git  t'run  out  for  de  rent.  Me  fadder 
trucks  lots  o'  t'ings." 

Muriel  had  learned  at  receptions  and  teas  to  work  any 
topic  of  conversation  for  all  it  was  worth;  she  went  on, 
briskly: 

"And  is  your  horse  a  strong  horse?" 

"Well,  he's  not  what  you'd  call  a  draft-horse.  You 
couldn't  do  no  heavy  dray  work  wit'  him.  He's  cut 
kind  o'  clost  to  de  bone,  and  he  wears  his  ribs  on  de  out- 
side.    But  he  does  what  he  kin,  Whiskers  does." 

"Whiskers?" 

8i 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

**Dat's  his  name." 

"Rather  odd  name,  isn't  it?" 

"Wait  till  you  see  his  feet.  All  four  of  'em  could  use  a 
haircut.     And  he's  got  a  lower  lip  like  a  billy-goat." 

When  they  had  run  down  the  ladder  of  numeral-named 
streets  they  came  into  the  region  of  named  streets.  But 
the  names  conveyed  nothing  more  to  Muriel. 

There  are  those  who  object  to  the  American  custom  of 
numbering  streets:  they  find  it  offensive  to  esthetics, 
however  convenient.  They  say  that  numbers  are  mean- 
ingless and  cannot  acquire  tradition,  as  if  to  those  who 
know  Fifth  Avenue  it  is  not  as  different  from  Sixth  as 
Piccadilly  fronuWhitechapel  Road.  Those  names  mean 
nothing,  either,  till  you  know  what  they  mean.  But  to 
New-Yorkers,  East  Thirteenth  Street  or  West  Twenty- 
eighth  has  as  much  connotation  as  Wall  or  Delancey.  To 
the  stranger,  Forty-second  Street  and  Fifty-ninth  Street 
may  suggest  nothing,  but  neither  does  East  Broadway, 
which  Happy  pointed  to  as  "de  Fi'th  Avenyeh  of  de  East 
Side." 

He  kept  calling  to  the  bewildered  Pamy:  "To  de 
right,"  " Toin  to  de  lef ',"  "Say,  where  you  goin' !"  "Now 
to  de  right."  "Whyn't  you  keep  on  straight  till  I  teU 
you?" 

Pamy's  dignity  was  ruffled  and  he  was  crimson  behind 
the  ears,  but  Muriel  was  amused.  If  Happy  went  to 
heaven  he  would  call  St.  Peter  "de  old  janitor  wit'  de 
white  fringe." 

Muriel  began  to  suspect  that  Happy  was  taking  them 
out  of  the  way  for  the  sake  of  the  ride.  And  he  was. 
But  eventually  they  came  to  the  region  where  an  arc  of 
the  first  of  the  big  city  bridges  soars  above  the  roofs  and 
where  the  white  height  of  the  Municipal  Building  thrusts 
icy  pinnacles  up  and  up  into  the  sky. 

Muriel  found  Batavia  Street  a  narrow  alley  a  few  him- 
dred  feet  long.  It  reminded  her  of  London  in  its  air  of 
being  mislaid,  its  brevity,  and  its  gloomy  antiqtdty.    Yet 

82 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

it  was  hard  to  believe  that  the  first  home  of  the  first 
President  of  the  United  States  was  within  a  stone's-throw 
of  this  place.  » 

There  was  barely  room  for  Pamy  to  squeeze  his  big  car 
between  the  sidewalks,  and  he  was  unable  to  pass  the 
first  obstruction,  a  ramshackle  wagon  on  splay  wheels. 
Attached  to  it  was  a  horse  that  stood  bias  to  the  street 
and  leaned  upon  its  rope-mended  harness  in  shameless 
decrepitude.  The  wagon  belonged  in  the  kindling-pile 
and  the  horse  was  ready  for  the  boneyard. 

Pamy  squawked  his  horn  to  warn  the  animal  aside,  but 
he  did  not  budge. 

"He's  deef,"  said  Happy,  who  was  in  no  hurry  to  get 
down  from  his  leathern  throne. 

Muriel  asked,  "Is  that — ^that  horse — yours?" 

"That's  Whiskers,"  said  Happy.     "Can't  you  see?" 

The  reasons  for  the  title  were  abimdantly  evident  on 
fetlock  and  chin. 

On  the  side  of  the  wagon  a  legend  had  been  painted 
by  home  talent  in  unconscious  cryptogram: 


pAtRickhANig 
AN  tRuckM 
ANAnd  BAggAgda 
LivaRd-LiCans  No. 
8372 


Muriel  was  puzzling  over  the  rebus  when  Happy  seized 
her  arm  and  murmtired: 

"Look,  dere's  me  mudder.  See?  In  de  top  windy! 
She  hoid  de  honker,  but  she  'ain't  sor  me  yet."  He  called 
aloud:  "Hay,  ma,  here  I  am!  It's  me!"  Again  he 
gripped  Muriel's  wincing  arm.  "She  sees  me!  Yep,  it's 
me,  ma!  She's  pipin'  you  off  now.  She  t'inks  you're  me 
new  wife.     Cheese,  she's  been  cryin'.     I  better  git  to  her." 

Mtiriel  looked  up  the  dark  wall  to  a  top  window  where 

83 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

a  head  hung  over  a  sill  as  if  it  had  been  cut  off.  She 
could  make  out  little  except  the  air  of  age  and  sorrow 
before  she  had  to  tum»to  Happy. 

He  was  making  haste  to  get  down,  but  his  zeal  aroused 
slumbering  bruises  and  he  yowled  and  collapsed  into  the 
arms  of  Muriel.  She  let  him  down  into  the  hands  of  Pamy, 
who  did  not  reUsh  the  ungainly  burden.  He  started  to 
carry  Happy  to  his  door,  only  to  be  rewarded  with  pum- 
melings  and  kicks: 

"  Drop  me,  dammit,  me  mudder  'U  t'ink  I'm  dead." 
Pamy  lowered  him  at  once  and  he  waved  and  smiled  up 
to  his  mudder.     But  there  was  melancholy  reassurance  at 
best  in  his  shambling  gait,  and  Muriel  felt  tears  in  her  soul. 

In  Batavia  Street  the  tenements  are  not  very  high  and 
they  have  httle  wooden  stoops  set  sidewise.  It  wrung 
Muriel's  heart  to  see  Happy  negotiate  the  problem. 
She  followed  to  help  him.  And  inside  the  building  the 
stairs  were  narrow  and  dark.  She  thought  she  would 
shriek  at  his  boggling  deHberateness,  but  he  would  not 
accept  her  aid. 

His  mother  came  nmning  down  to  meet  him  and  her 
aid  he  accepted,  also  her  caresses  and  kisses  and  her  pet 
names  and  her  anxiety.  He  was  telling  her  all  about 
everything  while  he  panted  up  the  stairs,  and  she  was 
interspersing  his  narrative  with  exclamations  of  pious 
terror,  as  if  the  danger  were  to  come  instead  of  past. 

Like  the  good  fervent  soul  she  was  she  appealed  to  holy 
names  with  every  breath.  It  was,  "Ah,  the  Lord  love  ye, 
darlin'!"  "Oh,  Jesus,  Mary,  and  Joseph,  and  how  was 
it  you  weren't  killed?"  and,  "Oh,  merciful  hovir!  Thank 
God  for  all  things!" 

Ivluriel  was  forgotten  for  the  moment  and  was  tempted 
to  retreat,  but  Happy  called  down  to  her  to  come  up  and 
meet  his  mother.  Miiriel  dimbed  the  rickety  boards  as 
meekly  and  breathlessly  as  many  an  aspirant  for  recog- 
nition had  climbed  the  famous  marble  stairway  in  her 

84 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

father's  home — ^the  stairway  whose  ascension  was  con- 
sidered so  definitely  a  route  to  the  social  seventh  heaven 
that  it  was  known  as  "Jacob's  Ladder." 

Muriel's  mother  had  stood  for  years  at  the  top  of 
Jacob's  Ladder  and  she  was  regarded  as  a  fierce  old  gorgon 
by  those  curious  people  who  try  to  make  friends  with  the 
great  not  for  the  sake  of  the  human  friendship,  but  for  the 
sake  of  the  diploma  it  gives.  To  Muriel,  however,  her 
mother  had  been  only  and  altogether  what  a  mother  is  and 
should  be.  Bom  on  the  peak,  Muriel  could  not  under- 
stand the  fierce  anxiety  of  the  climbers.  But  now  she 
understood  it  by  a  sort  of  inverted  reflection;  she  was 
climbing  toward  the  antipodal  height  of  poverty.  She 
was  the  intruder,  the  aspirant,  hoping  that  Mrs.  Hanigan 
would  accept  her  service  and  afraid  that  she  might  resent 
it  as  an  impudence. 

And  Happy,  who  made  the  presentation,  left  no  doubt 
by  his  manner  that  it  was  Muriel  who  was  receiving  rather 
than  giving  the  honor  of  the  occasion. 

His  formula  of  introduction  was  simple: 

"Ma,  shake  hands  wit'  Miss  Schuyler.  She's  so  stuck 
on  me  shape  she  follered  me  home." 

Mrs.  Hanigan  was  in  a  difficult  position.  As  a  mother 
it  was  her  duty  to  revile  Muriel  for  the  damage  done  to 
her  son;  also  it  was  her  duty  to  thank  her  for  her  sub- 
sequent courtesy.  Hospitality  urged  her  to  ignore  the 
former  duty  and  do  the  latter.  She  put  into  Muriel's 
stout  young  fingers  her  toil-weary,  time-worn  little  old 
hand  and  said: 

"Good  mamin',  and  God  save  you.  It's  kind  you  were 
to  the  boy." 

"I  wasn't  very  kind  to  him,"  said  Muriel,  "but  I  want 
to  be." 

But  Mrs.  Hanigan  felt  called  upon  to  apologize  for  the 
neighborhood  before  she  took  up  any  new  business: 

"You  mustn't  be  mindin'  the  looks  of  things.  This 
street  is  gone  that  bad  it  'd  take  the  heart  out  of  you. 

85 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

But  when  first  we  came  over  this  was  as  grand  a  neighbor- 
hood as  you'd  be  lookin'  for.  Grand  people  here,  too. 
Now  and  again  there'd  be  a  bit  of  throuble  on  Cherry- 
Street,  but  the  police  was  ahlways  interferin',  and  smahl 
wondher  they  got  paid  up.  At  last  thim  Eyetalians 
begin  to  pour  in,  and  us  Irish  hates  garlic  as  the  devil 
hates  holy  wather.  We  was  always  m'aning  to  move,  but 
the  one  thing  and  another  previnted.  We  done  our  best 
to  show  the  Eyetalians  they  wasn't  wahnted.  Me  own 
man  and  others  would  push  chimneys  off  the  roofs  onto 
them,  but  then  they'd  move  in  at  night.  There  was  no 
stoppin'  'em,  so  at  last  we  had  to  get  used  to  'em. 

"Thin  the  Yiddishers  come  along  and  squeeged  out  the 
Eyetalians,  and  we  was  worse  off  nor  befoor;  and  now  it's 
the  Greeks  have  drove  out  the  Yiddishers.  And  it's  past 
apologizin'  for.  There's  nobody  here  now  but  new 
Albanians  and  a  few  of  us  old  families,  Irish,  Jewish,  and 
Dago,  that  couldn't  somehow  get  away.  But  for  why  am 
I  holdin'  you  out  in  the  hahl?     Come  in,  dear." 

She  opened  the  door,  motioned  Muriel  within,  wiped 
off  a  chair  with  her  sleeve,  invited  Muriel  to  sit  down,  and 
stood  meekly  before  her,  with  her  head  tilted  wistfully 
to  one  side  and  one  hand  at  her  throat  holding  her  waist 
together. 

Muriel  prepared  to  deliver  her  petition  and  coughed 
once  or  twice.  Then  she  noted  that  Happy  had  toddled 
to  his  cot  in  the  kitchen  and  fallen  asleep  as  soon  as  he 
spread  his  poor  bones  across  it.  The  shock  had  begun  to 
show  the  drain  on  his  strength. 

Muriel  beckoned  Mrs.  Hanigan  into  the  hall  for  a  secret 
conference  on  the  matter  of  rectifying  Happy's  frame. 
They  tiptoed  out,  and  Muriel,  leaning  against  the  banister, 
stated  her  case  with  apologies  for  her  interference. 

Mrs.  Hanigan  stared  at  her  with  the  hungry  gratitude 
of  a  famine-sufferer  to  a  distributer  of  bread.  The  tears 
ran  to  her  eyes  and  scattered  down  her  infinitely  wrinkled 
skin  like  spilled  shot. 

86 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

It  was  a  divine  boon  Mmiel  offered  her.  In  the  mystic- 
lottery  of  birth  she  had  drawn  a  crippled  child,  whose 
deformities  had  grown  with  him,  a  lifelong  reproach  and 
protest  to  his  parents. 

And  now  from  the  heavens  a  saint  had  arrived 
promising  a  divine  miracle  by  way  of  the  science  and 
surgery  of  to-day  which  are  the  clay  and  spittle  on  the 
eyes  of  the  blind,  the  "Arise,  take  up  thy  bed  and 
walk"  of  the  halt. 

Mrs.  Hanigan  accepted  with  gratitude  and  a  promise 
of  countless  prayers  for  Muriel's  welfare.  She  promised 
to  break  the  news  to  Happy  and  to  compel  him  to  undergo 
the  ordeal. 

Then  Muriel  put  out  her  hand  in  farewell  and  turned 
to  descend  the  stairs.  Mrs!  Hanigan  would  have  been 
less  surprised  if  she  had  tmfolded  wings  and  soared  away 
through  the  skylight. 

As  Muriel  was  listening  to  the  endless  reiteration  of 
Mrs.  Hanigan's  gratitude  and  trying  to  get  her  hand  back 
without  brusquerie,  she  began  to  take  cognizance  of  a 
moaning.  She  had  heard  it  all  the  while,  but  it  had 
not  quite  forced  its  way  into  her  main  ciurent  of 
thought. 

Now  she  realized  that  it  was  not  a  freak  of  the  wind, 
but  the  wailing  of  women  in  great  sorrow.  She  asked 
Mrs.  Hanigan  what  it  might  be. 

"It's  them  poor  Wops  on  the  flure  beneat'th,"  said 
Mrs.  Hanigan.  "Their  name  is  Angelilly,  and  I  take 
shame  to  meself  for  complainin'  when  I  think  of  what's 
put  on  thim.  My  boy  Michael  is  twishted,  but  I  have  him 
home.  Their  boy  has  been  stolen  on  thim  by  the  Black 
Hand.  They  have  money  where  we  have  none,  but 
they  haven't  enough  for  to  pay  what  '11  bring  back  their 
boy.  They're  near  destroyed  with  trouble.  God  sinds 
the  childher  to  the  poor  for  a  blessin',  but  the  Black  Boy 
tiims  them  into  a  sorrow." 

Muriel's  first  thought  was  an  appeal  to  the  law. 

87 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Their  child  stolen!"  she  gasped.  "Why  don't  they 
appeal  to  the  police?" 

Mrs.  Hanigan  smiled  dismally:  "The  police  is  it?  And 
get  their  boy  killed  for  them.  Sure  they're  afraid  to  be 
heard  cryin'  out  loud.  The  poor  mother — ^me  heart 
bleeds  for  her — she's  not  so  bad — for  a  Dago — kind  and 
quite  but  only  for  when  she's  wailin'." 

Muriel  pondered.     "I  wonder  if  I  could  be  of  help?" 

Mrs.  Hanigan  was  instantly  alarmed:  "You'd  best  be 
keepin'  out  of  that,  honey.  Thim  Black  Hand  Ginneys 
is  the  terrible  ones.  They're  like  snakes  in  the  dark. 
They'd  kill  a  Christian  as  soon  as  an  Eyetalian  if  you 
crossed  their  path." 

Mtiriel  was  learning  something  of  the  modem  demon- 
ology  of  the  present-day  poor:  the  automobiles,  the  Mafia, 
the  hospitals.  Danger  and  bad  luck  assailed  the  poor 
most  on  the  side  of  their  children.  The  rich  man's  yoimg 
are  perishable  freight  enough,  but  the  Httle  poor  must 
run  endless  gantlets  of  danger. 

Miiriel  promised  Mrs.  Hanigan  to  keep  away,  and 
got  her  hand  back  at  last,  after  Mrs.  Hanigan  had 
held  it  and  patted  it  and  laid  it  against  her  tear-enriched 
cheek. 

Then  Muriel  hurried  down  the  stairs.  She  was  so 
afraid  of  the  very  mention  of  the  Black  Hand  that  she 
went  along  the  next  hall  beneath  on  tiptoe.  As  she  was 
passing  the  fateful  door  the  voice  of  the  woman  within 
broke  out  in  an  anguish  of  impatience  at  fate: 

"0  figlio  mio!  figliuolo  mio!" 

Muriel  had  spent  a  winter  or  two  in  Italy  and  learned 
to  like  the  people.  She  liked  everybody  she  knew.  She 
felt  the  human  urge  impelling  her  feet  to  the  door.  But 
fear  carried  her  on,  though  the  reiterated  wail  went 
through  her  heart  like  a  thin  stiletto. 

She  moved  doggedly  down  the  first  few  steps  of  the 
next  stairway,  but  that  mother's  call  for  her  son  seized 
her  as  with  a  mother's  hands,  and  she  paused. 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  yoiinger  voice  comforting  the 
older.  Somehow  that  courage  touched  her  deepher  than 
the  agony,  that  old  glorious  watchword  of  mankind, 
"'Let  us  be  strong."  She  heard  it  here  in  this  tenement, 
"Siamo  forti,  madre  mio."  She  wavered,  then  turned 
about,  moimted  the  steps,  went  to  the  door  and  tapped 
softly. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THERE  was  a  silence.  She  tapped  again,  then  a 
feeble  call: 

"ChiUa?" 

"  Un  'arnica,"  she  answered. 

"Entrir 

Mtiriel  pushed  the  door  open  timidly  and  paused,  once 
more  a  social  aspirant  in  another  caste.  She  had  a 
sense  of  Italian  large  eyes  further  enlarged  with  wonder. 

On  a  backless  chair  the  woman  whose  wails  had  troubled 
the  building  sat  crouched,  tearing  her  hair  and  clawing  her 
cheeks.  She  was  only  thirty,  but  she  was  already  a 
grandmother.  She  looked  up  through  her  claws  now  and 
stared  through  streaming  eyes  at  Muriel.  Across  her 
lap  lay  her  latest  child,  an  infant  exhausted  with  its  un- 
heeded shrieks. 

At  her  side  stood  her  eldest  daughter,  herself  a  wife 
and  not  yet  fifteen.  In  her  left  arm  she  held  a  naked, 
chubby  bambella  that  stood  on  her  narrow  hip  and  fed 
noisily  at  her  yoimg  breast,  as  tmmindful  of  grief  as  the 
tiny  kitten  that  lay  supine  on  the  floor  and  sparred  with 
the  fringe  of  the  red  table-cloth. 

The  wall  was  spotted  with  a  few  Biblical  scenes,  a  comic 
supplement  or  two  from  a  Simday  newspaper,  and  gaudy 
prints  of  the  Italian  king  and  queen  wearing  a  startled 
and  uncomfortable  expression.  On  an  easel  was  propped 
a  large  crayon  portrait  of  a  boy.  It  was  one  of  the  hor- 
rors that  cheap  photographers  inflict  on  their  more  liberal 
customers.    The  artist  had  done  his  worst,  but  had  not 

90 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

quite  effaced  all  human  semblance,  and  there  was  a  rem- 
nant of  childish  beauty. 

As  Muriel  faced  the  gaze  of  the  puzzled  women  she  felt 
like  apologizing  for  an  unpardonable  infringement  on  the 
privacy  of  their  grief.  But  she  had  crossed  the  Rubicon 
and  she  could  not  retreat.  She  paused  at  the  door-sill  to 
compose  her  offer  of  services  in  lugubrious  Italian. 

"/ — 0 — ho — to  ho  udi — udito  vostro — "  She  could  not 
remember  the  word  for  "crying." 

The  elder  woman  stared  dumbly,  the  yoimger  answered, 
"You  did  hear  my  mawther  cry?" 

"Yes,"  Muriel  gasped,  grateful  for  the  rescue.  " I  was 
passing.  I  heard  the  sound  of  weeping.  I  thought  I 
might  help." 

The  elder  mother  frowned  and  tried  to  grasp  Muriel's 
meaning  without  imderstanding  her  words.  She  tugged 
at  her  daughter's  apron  and  muttered: 

''Che  dice?" 

The  younger  mother  translated  in  an  undertone  the 
nature  of  Muriel's  visit.  The  elder  woman  answered 
resentfully.  Muriel  caught  the  words  "casa  di  settle- 
ment.^' They  took  her  for  a  settlement-worker.  This, 
strangely,  did  not  make  her  welcome.  She  could  not 
understand  why.  But  she  explained  with  a  timid  con- 
fusion that  won  their  hearts  how  she  had  been  calling 
upon  Mrs.  Hanigan  and  had  learned  of  their  grief  and 
could  not  go  past  the  door  without  at  least  telling  them 
how  sorry  she  was. 

Once  more  the  women  conferred.  Then  the  girl  brought* 
forward  a  chair  and  said,  ''Favorite  di  sedere." 

The  social  struggler  had  captured  another  stronghold. 

Even  the  kitten  came  over  to  pretend  that  Muriel's 
little  shoe  was  a  very  big  mouse,  and  she  encouraged  its 
scamperings,  back-archings,  tail-swelling  onsets,  and  panics. 
The  women  smiled  a  little  at  the  kitten's  mock  heroics. 
It  was  about  the  only  thing  in  the  world  that  could  have 
brought  them  a  smile. 

91 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Fortunately  for  Muriel  the  sticky  baby  refused  her 
advances. 

Muriel  extracted  the  story  of  the  theft  of  the  child 
after  some  difficulty.  The  mother,  Teresa,  was  incoherent 
with  grief,  but  the  daughter,  Gemma,  was  fluent  in  English, 
for  all  her  accent.  She  said  that  her  father,  Angelo 
Angelillo,  was  an  ambitious  man  who  kept  a  bakeshop 
and  tried  to  advance  himself  with  side  lines,  such  as 
ice  and  wood  and  fruit  and  a  few  boot-blacking  stands. 
He  thought  he  had  no  enemies.  He  had  kept  clear  of  the 
feuds  brought  over  from  Italy  or  compoimded  here.  He 
made  some  money,  and  was  glad  to  give  the  impression  of 
making  more — it  was  the  typical  American  game  of  bluff 
and  it  helped  business. 

But  it  had  attracted  the  attention  of  the  criminals,  too. 
Several  times  the  shop  had  been  robbed,  with  poor  resiilts. 
Now  the  boy  had  been  stolen  to  be  held  for  ransom. 
Teresa  broke  in  that  it  was  a  punishment  from  Heaven 
for  her  husband's  wild  ambitions — punizione  d'  ambizio- 
sagine. 

Gemma  told  how  the  boy  Filippo  was  prized.  He  was 
all  the  sons  of  his  father's  house,  and  more  precious  than 
all  the  daughters  together.  There  had  been  no  thought 
of  danger — Filippo  had  played  in  the  streets  or  pretended 
to  be  a  salesman  in  his  father's  bakeshop.  Sometimes  he 
was  allowed  to  deliver  packages — long  sticks  of  bread  or 
cakes.  He  could  be  trusted  with  the  bread;  sometimes 
the  cakes  were  nibbled,  but  nobody  minded  the  marks  of 
his  little  teeth. 

Three  days  ago  he  had  gone  on  such  an  errand.  He 
had  not  come  back — not  to  dinner,  not  in  the  evening. 
They  had  all  hunted  for  him,  run  through  the  streets, 
through  all  the  streets,  even  through  the  whole  long 
curve  of  Mulberry  Bend  and  through  the  park  named 
after   the    Italian   who    invented   America.     They    had 

92 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

searched  even  through  the  "Little  Italy"  of  far-away 
Harlem. 

Muriel  could  picture  them  running  awkwardly,  bare- 
headed, gesticulating,  with  their  hair  flying,  their  eyes 
wild,  breathlessly  demanding,  demanding. 

Gemma  brought  out  a  photograph  of  the  boy — the 
photograph  from  which  the  crayon  portrait  had  been 
made.  It  showed  the  usual  unusual  beauty  of  Italian 
children.  Filippo  might  have  been  one  of  Donatello's 
little  choristers. 

All  night  he  had  not  come  home.  All  night  the  father 
neglected  the  bakery  and  ransacked  the  town,  calling, 
peering,  questioning  as  if  in  a  huge  forest. 

No  bread  was  made  that  night;  the  other  bakers  were 
turned  loose  to  hunt.  The  next  day  the  shop  was  closed 
while  the  search  went  on.  The  father  had  even  dared 
to  visit  the  Morgue;  he  had  telephoned  the  hospitals.  He 
had  been  desperate  enough  to  notify  the  police  that  the 
boy  was  lost.  A  general  alarm  was  sent  out  with  a 
description  of  his  white  waist,  his  black  little  breeches, 
his  brown  stockings  and  shoes,  his  straw  hat,  his  seventy 
poxmds  of  weight,  his  big  black  eyes,  black  curls,  and  red 
lips.  This  helped  the  indifferent  poHce  not  at  all,  for 
New  York  is  the  largest  Italian  dty  in  the  world  save 
Naples — larger  than  Rome  or  Milan;  half  a  million  Italians 
are  scattered  through  the  city.  The  description  of 
Filippo  fitted  thousands  of  Httle  Italian  boys.  But  the 
Angelilli  covild  not  imagine  another  Hke  their  Filippo. 

The  next  day  came  a  terrible  letter;  it  proved  that  the 
child  had  not  run  away;  he  had  not  hated  his  family  or 
wearied  of  his  home;  he  had  been  stolen.  Somewhere 
he  was  crying  for  his  mother  unless  he  was  gagged;  he 
was  afraid  and  hungry;  perhaps  he  was  beaten,  thrust 
into  some  dark  cellar — and  he  was  always  so  afraid  of  the 
dark!  Gemma  brought  out  the  letter,  a  plain  envelope 
with  the  address  printed  on  it  in  pencil.  The  post- 
mark was  Brooklyn.     The  message  was  printed  in  Italian, 

93 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

which  even  Muriel  could  see  was  misspelled  and  ungram- 
matical.     She  Englished  it  thus 

Angelo  Angelillo, — Your  boy  is  in  our  hands.  If  you  love 
him  you  will  be  glad  to  pay  us  five  thousand  dollars,  which  we 
need.  If  you  love  the  money  more  than  you  love  your  son 
keep  your  money  and  we  will  send  the  boy  back  to  you  in  a  box. 
If  you  want  to  see  him  alive  publish  in  the  Araldo  this  line, 
"Lost:  $5,000  reward  for  FiUppo  Angelillo"  and  we  will  let 
you  know  where  to  put  the  money.  If  you  tell  the  poUce, 
you  will  not  see  the  boy  again  even  in  a  box. 

The  letter  was  not  signed,  except  by  a  rude  picture  of  an 
open  hand  in  black  ink. 

Muriel  read  the  letter  slowly  and  put  it  down  as  if  it  were 
an  infernal  machine.  It  chilled  her  blood  with  the  pecu- 
liar cruelty  of  a  crime  against  a  child. 

"Did  you  publish  the  line  in  the  paper?"  she  asked. 

Gemma  shook  her  head  dolefvdly:  "Where  shall  my 
fadder  find  fi'  zousan  dollari?  He  has  not.  He  cannot 
get." 

"Did  you  notify  the  police?"  Muriel  asked,  miserably. 

"No,  no!  Giammai!  To  tell  the  police  is  to  keel 
Filippo.  The  letter  says  it.  Eccblo!  So  soon  the  police 
hunt  for  the  boy,  so  soon  he  die." 

"What  can  you  do  then?"  Muriel  faltered,  sick  at  her 
futility.  I 

"To  pray  and  to  cry  is  all,"  said  Gemma.  "//  mio 
padre  hunts  in  Brooklyn  to-day.  But  Brooklyn  is  beega 
city.  He  cannot  find  Filippo;  soch  a  leetla  boy  in  a  so 
beega  city." 

The  women  subsided  into  a  wide-eyed  stupor. 

Gemma  told  of  other  boys  who  had  been  stolen,  rela- 
tions of  theirs.  And  men  had  been  killed  who  were 
relations  of  theirs.  The  famous  barrel  murder  was  stiU 
imsolved,  though  eleven  lives  had  been  lost.  The  one 
thing  imfailing  was  the  failure  of  the  police,   and  the 

94 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

ruination  of  eveiything  when  they  blundered  into  the 
mystery. 

Muriel  felt  the  terror  of  the  subterrene  war.  It  was 
like  a  conflict  among  moles  somewhere  in  the  earth. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  Hallard  walked  in. 
He  assumed  that  Muriel  was  from  one  of  the  settlement 
houses,  engaged  in  benefiting  these  reluctant  people 
with  useful  but  unwelcome  advice  as  to  ventilation,  the 
making  of  beds,  the  care  of  children,  and  true  economy. 
HaUard  explained  that  he  had  heard  of  the  kidnapping  and 
was  assigned  by  the  Bulletin  to  find  out  the  truth.  At 
that  time  he  had  not  yet  moved  over  to  the  Gazette. 

There  are  various  words  for  devil,  but  the  terrible  word 
"reporter"  is  the  same  in  all  languages.  The  English 
invented  it,  the  Americans  perfected  its  powers,  and  the 
rest  of  the  world  has  adopted  it. 

Gemma  did  not  have  to  translate  the  title  when  she 
understood,  she  simply  gasped: 

"  Uno  reporter!" 

Teresa  understood,  and  moaned,  ^'Tutto  k  perduto!" 

The  very  mention  of  Hallard's  errand  threw  the  women 
into  a  panic.  Their  one  hope  had  been  to  work  in  secret, 
to  keep  even  the  poHce  from  throwing  their  flash-lamps 
into  the  cave.  The  newspapers  would  be  Hke  sudden 
search-Hghts.  The  kidnappers  would  scurry  for  shelter, 
leaving  a  dead  child  in  some  closet  or  vacant  lot. 

Gemma  put  her  baby  in  her  mother's  lap  and  strode 
toward  Hallard  with  a  frenzy  of  hatred. 

"You  get  outa  thees  room!"  she  cried.  "If  you  poob- 
leesh  about  our  Filippo  they  keel  our  leetla  boy.  See, 
they  say  it.     And  I  keel  you — ^me!" 

She  held  the  letter  out  and  beat  it  with  the  back  of  her 
hand.  Hallard  snatched  it  and  glanced  over  it  before  he 
allowed  Gemma  to  recover  it.  She  would  have  torn  him 
with  her  nails,  but  he  caught  her  hands  and  tried  to  cahn 
her: 

95 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Now,  now,"  he  said.  "Easy  does  it!  Piano,  piano! 
The  Bulletin  is  your  friend — to  amico — comprendete? 
You  give  me  a  picture  of  the  boy.  We  pubHsh  it.  Every- 
body sees  it.  Somebody  recognizes  the  boy.  We  find 
him  right  away,  and  there  you  are.     It's  the  only  thing." 

Gemma  knew  more  of  the  Black  Hand  than  she  did  of 
Hallard's  theory  of  government  by  newspaper  and  police 
by  publicity.  She  continued  to  order  him  out,  flinging 
back  the  door  and  shouting  like  a  fury. 

Hallard  saw  the  photograph  and  picked  it  up.  "  Is  this 
the  kid?" 

Gemma  snatched  it  from  his  hands. 

He  smiled.  "Oh,  all  right."  He  turned  to  Muriel. 
"They  all  look  alike.  Our  artist  can  fake  up  a  good 
picture,  and  we  have  the  police  description." 

Muriel  added  her  prayers  to  Gemma's: 

"  Oh,  I  beg  you  not  to  print  anything.  They  know  best- 
It's  their  child.  It's  their  right  to  say  whether  they  shall 
have  the  story  published." 

Hallard  grinned.  "Well,  it's  a  matter  of  opinion.  We 
think  that  sunlight  never  hurt  anything  that  was  worth 
saving.  Anyway,  I'm  sent  to  get  the  story  and  I've  got 
to  obey  orders.     Did  you  know  the  boy?" 

"No,"  said  Muriel.  "Isn't  there  any  inducement  I 
can  offer  to  persuade  you  to  keep  quiet?" 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

Her  fingers  went  to  the  lock  of  her  hand-bag. 

He  frowned  with  his  eyebrow  and  a  half,  and  one-half 
of  his  lip  sagged;  then  he  began  to  laugh  contemptuously. 
Her  hand  fell  away  from  her  purse.  He  stared  at  her  and 
her  pretty  helplessness.     Then  he  started,  and  gasped: 

"Say,  you're  the  yoimg  Miss  Schuyler,  aren't  you?" 

"That  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it,"  she  an- 
swered with  great  firmness.  "What  I  want  you  to  do  is 
to  keep  this  out  of  the  papers." 

"I'm  afraid  that's  impossible,  Miss  Schuyler,"  he  said, 
amused  at  her  dictatorial  tone. 

96 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

She  gave  up  bribery  and  command  and  turned  to 
appeal.  "Then  won't  you  please  tell  your  editor  that 
you  couldn't  find  out  anything?     Couldn't  you?" 

"  Would  you  have  a  newspaper  man  tell  a  fib?"  Hallard 
groaned  with  a  burlesque  horror.  The  armor  of  his 
cynicism  was  impenetrable. 

She  could  not  fight  past  his  grin  to  his  heart,  if  he  had 
any.  She  sank  back  into  her  chair,  and  muttered, 
"You  beast!"  There  was  something  pleasantly  naive  in 
her  very  insolence.     Unselfish  anger  is  always  becoming. 

Hallard  sighed.  ' '  If  we  only  printed  what  we  were  asked 
to  print.  Miss  Schuyler,  and  left  out  everything  we  were 
asked  to  leave  out,  there'd  be  nothing  but  advertisements 
and  stories  about  actresses  and — society  folks.  You 
won't  mind  if  I  write  a  little  about  finding  you  here  work- 
ing for  these  poor  people,  will  you?" 

"What!"  Muriel  exclaimed,  sitting  up  very  straight. 

"The  story  about  this  poor  boy  is  worth  only  a  couple 
of  sticks,  but  if  I  can  get  you  into  it  they'll  give  me  a 
column  or  two.  We've  got  a  photograph  of  you,  but 
perhaps  you  have  a  later  picture  you'd  rather  have  us 
run." 

"Why,  you  unmitigated  scoundrel!"  Muriel  gasped. 

Hallard  did  not  wince.  He  pleaded:  "What  better 
publicity  could  you  want  than  a  story  of  how  you  came 
down  here  into  the  slums  and  held  out  a  helping  hand  to 
the  downtrodden  in  their  distress?  I  could  get  a  flash- 
light of  you  in  this  room  and  call  it  the  Angel  of  the 
Tenements." 

If  she  had  even  nibbled  at  the  bait  he  would  have 
despised  her  as  the  dealers  in  publicity  despise  the  beg- 
gars in  rags  and  tags  "and  some  in  velvet  gowns"  who 
whine  and  wheedle  at  the  back  doors  of  the  newspapers. 
But  Muriel  was  aghast  at  the  very  suggestion. 

"You  dare  to  mention  my  name  in  your  miserable  old 
paper  and  I'll — I'll — "  It  was  hard  to  think  what  she 
could  do,  but  her  wrath  was  manifest. 

97 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"What  harm  could  it  do  you?"  Hallard  urged. 

"You  can't  harm  me!"  she  blazed  with  the  haughty 
presumption  of  a  yoimg  empress.  "But  you  can  harm 
these  poor  souls.  I  came  in  here  to  help  them  and  you 
want  to  use  me  to  harm  them.  They  don't  want  any- 
thing printed.  And  they  know  best.  And  they  have 
some  rights,  even  if  I  haven't.  But  if  you  make  use  of 
my  father's  prominence  to  print  a  big  article  about  me 
and  injure  these  poor  soiils — ^well,  I  don't  know  what  I 
can  do,  but  some  day  you'll  get  paid  for  it._  You  see!" 

Hallard's  comment  on  her  fierce  tirade  was  to  lift  his 
eyes  gratefully  and  sigh,  "Thank  God,  for  once!" 

Muriel  did  not  know  from  what  a  long  experience  of 
the  miasms  in  the  marshes  of  self-seeking  and  self- 
concealment  this  gratitude  arose.  She  supposed  that  she 
had  failed,  since  he  went  to  the  door.  But  he  paused  and 
said,  with  much  deference  in  his  tone: 

"  I've  got  to  turn  in  the  story  of  the  boy,  Miss  Schuyler, 
because  I  was  sent  for  it;  but  I'll  keep  it  down  as  much  as 
I  can.  And  I'll  leave  you  out  of  it.  It's  kind  of  disloyal 
to  my  paper,  but  it's  a  luxury  to  me  to  be  asked  to  keep  a 
decent  action  secret." 

"My  father  does  hundreds  of  charitable  deeds  every 
year  and  keeps  them  secret,"  Muriel  retorted. 

"Then  they  get  head-lines  in  the  New  Jerusalem 
Journal,"  said  Hallard,  pointing  up,  "and  I've  no  doubt 
your  picture  will  be  there  this  afternoon.  But  it  won't 
appear  in  the  New  York  Bulletin.  Good-by,  Miss 
Schuyler,  and  my  congratulations  to  you  on  your 
soul." 

He  puzzled  her  unsophisticated  yotmg  mind  almost  as 
much  as  he  puzzled  the  two  Italian  women  who  under- 
stood his  language  even  less  than  she  did. 

But  they  all  took  comfort  from  his  snule;  and  no  smile 
is  quite  so  sweet  as  that  which  surprises  a  cynical  face 
with  a  flood  of  benignity. 

Teresa  began  again  to  babble  prayers  to  the  Madre 

98 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

di  Dio  to  spare  her  boy  from  torments  such  as  Her  boy  had 
endured. 

Then  came  a  thumping  of  feet  on  the  stairway,  and 
the  door  was  flung  open  by  a  yoimg  Italian  man  whose 
clothes  and  arms  and  face  were  white  with  flour.  He 
carried  a  letter  in  his  hand,  and  he  was  sure  that  it  was 
from  the  boy  himself.  It  had  come  into  the  shop  pinned 
to  a  bag  of  flour  brought  by  a  flour  merchant  who  said  that 
he  had  not  seen  it  before. 

All  three  were  so  excited  that  their  hands  could  neither 
take  nor  hold  the  letter.  It  fell  to  the  floor  and  was  clutched 
at  and  dropped  again.  It  fluttered  like  a  butterfly  trying 
to  escape.  At  last  Gemma  secured  it  and  ripped  it  open. 
She  cried  that  it  was  from  Filippo.  He  had  printed  it 
himself. 

Into  her  hand  fell  a  Httle  black  curl  of  hair.  She  held 
it  out  in  her  palm.  The  mother  seized  it,  pressed  it  to  her 
lips  and  to  her  breast  and  talked  to  it. 

Then  Gemma  read  the  letter  with  greedy  joy  that 
curdled  at  once.  Her  laughter  ended  in  a  gnarr  of 
nausea.  She  dug  her  fingers  into  her  breast  and  the  paper 
fell  again  to  the  floor  while  she  knelt  and,  clinging  to  the 
mother,  chattered  insanely. 

Muriel  hesitatingly  picked  up  the  letter  and  read: 

Cara  mamma  cara  babbo  io  fame  e  paura^ 

She  could  make  out  the  beginning,  the  child's  first  cry. 
*T  am  himgry  and  afraid,"  but  what  followed  in  childish 
dialect  and  spelling  escaped  her.  Especially  the  words 
"par sell  posto." 

She  knelt  by  the  kneeling  Gemma  and  put  her  arms 
about  both  women  and  their  smothered,  wailing  babes, 
but  they  seemed  not  to  know  of  her  existence. 

The  yoimg  baker  took  the  letter  from  her  fingers  with 
a  gentle,  "Domando  perdona."    He  read  and  fell  to  beat- 

99 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

ing  his  eyes  with  his  palms.  Muriel  turned  to  him  for 
explanation,  and  he  cried: 

"Leetla  boy  says,  'Pleass  send  money  queeck  or  man 
says  he  gona  cut  me  into — ^into  pieces  and  senda  wan 
piece  avery  day  by — by — dio  mio! — by  post — by  parcel 
post'!" 

Muriel  felt  herself  swooning.  She  kept  herself  alive 
only  by  the  necessity  of  helping  these  frantic  wretches. 

Just  one  hope  of  rescue  occurred  to  Muriel — to  pay  the 
ransom.  Somewhere  the  five  thousand  dollars  must  be 
found. 

When  she  thought  of  money  she  thought  of  her  father. 
She  would  go  to  him  at  once,  and  make  him  give  it  to  her. 
Of  course  he  would.     He'd  be  only  too  glad  to. 

Radiant  with  inspiration,  she  knelt  by  the  women  again 
and  took  their  swaying  bodies  in  her  arms  and  kissed  their 
cheeks  and  called  through  the  mist  of  fear  that  enveloped 
them,  repeating  again  and  again  in  English  mingled  with 
such  Italian  as  she  could  improvise: 

"Don't  cry — non  piangete;  place! — io  andare  a  mio 
padre.  He  will — il  dare  mi  le  cinque  mille  dollars;  yes,  he 
will — si,  si — mio  padre  very  rich — ^reech — ricco  uomo, 
padre  mio — il  e  milionario,  si — si!  Filippo  will  come  back. 
I'll  get  him — io — io — presto  possibile.  Please  don't  cry! 
I  come  back.     A  rivederci.     Good-by!" 

Her  effort  to  find  the  words  was  almost  more  tormenting 
than  her  sorrow.  Finally  she  beat  into  Gemma's  mind 
the  new  hope,  and  Gemma  told  her  mother.  Teresa 
stared  at  Muriel  incredulously,  then  caught  her  about  the 
knees,  imploring  her  by  her  hope  of  paradise,  by  the  body 
of  God,  by  the  blood  of  San  Gennaro  by  all  tilings  imagin- 
able, to  save  the  piccolo  figliuolo. 

Muriel  backed  away  promising,  promising,  and  Teresa 
dragged  after  her  on  her  knees,  kissing  Muriel's  arms 
and  the  hem  of  her  skirt  till  Gemma  unfastened  her  hands 
and  held  her  while  Muriel  escaped. 

lOO 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Just  one  bright  fact  glinted  in  the  black  smoke  about 
her,  and  that  was  the  glory  and  beauty  and  salvation  of  the 
wealth  her  father  had  been  good  enough  to  build  up. 
Many  newspapers  published  heinous  attacks  on  her  father, 
because  of  his  wealth  and  the  way  he  got  it  and  kept  it. 
Orators  under  red  flags  said  that  he  should  be  pauperized 
or  assassinated;  bur  she  felt  that  wealth  was  justified, 
was  sanctified  by  such  opportunities  as  this. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MURIEL  hurried  down  the  stairway  and  met  the 
fretful  Pamy,  who  was  about  to  mount  in  pursuit 
of  her.  She  silenced  his  indignant  rebukes,  and  was  just 
stepping  into  the  car  when  the  silence  of  the  shut-in  street 
was  broken  by  a  hubbub  of  voices,  a  man's  shrill  protests, 
gruff  shouts,  and  women's  clamor. 

Muriel  was  fatigued  with  grief.  She  had  seen  two 
tragedies,  and  they  were  enough  for  one  day.  But  it  was 
not  for  her  to  select  the  nimiber  or  the  nature  of  her 
experiences.  They  were  not  prepared  for  her.  Thousands 
of  other  and  equally  cruel  torments  were  trying  himian 
hearts  all  over  the  town,  all  over  the  nation,  all  over  the 
world,  perhaps  all  over  the  universe. 

Everywhere — on  that  day  as  on  this — sorrow  was  chas- 
ing joy  from  one  place  and  joy  was  putting  grief  to  flight 
from  another.  Whoever  walks  the  city  streets  or  the 
country  lanes  or  enters  any  of  the  houses  must  keep  ears 
and  eyes  and  heart  hermetically  sealed  and  must  brood 
exclusively  on  his  own  moods,  or  he  will  find  that  life  is 
hardly  more  than  the  everlasting  frustration  of  ever- 
renewed  desires. 

Let  him  who  would  hoard  his  money  or  his  sympathy 
stick  close  at  home,  for  everywhere  he  moves  abroad  he 
will  find  empty  pockets  and  souls  in  need.  Muriel  had 
entered  life.  The  scales  were  falling  from  her  eyes  and 
the  nursery  music  was  dying  from  her  ears.  She  was  en- 
countering realities.  This  was  more  truly  her  d^but  than 
that  recent  occasion  when  her  parents  gave  a  coming-out 
party  for  her  and  presented  her  to  a  select  portion  of  her 

I02 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

own  world  in  her  best  bib  and  tucker — or.  rather,  without 
bib  or  tucker. 

The  day  after  that  dancing  entree  she  was  the  same  girl 
as  before.  After  this  day  she  would  never  be  a  girl  again. 
She  would  have  girlish  impulses  and  laughters  and  mis- 
chiefs tni  her  copper  hair  was  silver,  but  she  had  won  to 
the  title  of  woman.  She  was  even  going  to  learn  some- 
thing about  the  law — a.  very  vague  ghost  to  those  who  do 
not  come  in  conflict  with  it,  but  a  terrible  wrestler  to  those 
who  do. 

She  had  asked  the  Hanigans  and  the  Angelilli  why  they 
had  not  turned  to  the  law  for  refuge  from  human  oppres- 
sion. She  was  about  to  witness  innocence  appealing  to 
humanity  for  rescue  from  the  law. 

As  she  rose  into  the  tonneau  of  the  car  there  was  a  sort 
of  explosion  of  people  from  a  doorway  on  the  other  side  of 
the  street.  A  few  children  came  first,  then  a  woman  or 
two,  gesticulating  men,  and  then  two  big  policemen 
supporting  between  them  a  young  woman  of  imcanny 
paUor  and  an  imearthly  smile.  After  the  policemen  fol- 
lowed a  residue  of  men  and  women  who  kept  seizing  the 
officers  by  the  coats.  When  the  police  hurled  them  away 
with  fiail-like  back-sweeps  of  their  big  elbows  they 
clutched  again. 

The  knot  came  straggling  and  swaying  along  the  street 
till  it  reached  the  side  of  the  car  where  Muriel  stood  like 
one  looking  down  into  a  pool. 

The  chief  disturber  was  a  lean  and  wan  young  Jew 
with  great  eyes  and  a  curly  chestnut-colored  beard  that 
gave  him  the  look  of  the  pictured  Christ.  This  even  in 
spite  of  his  violence.  He  kept  hurling  himself  upon  one 
of  the  policemen,  not  striking  him,  but  appealing  and 
clutching  past  him  at  the  prisoner,  who  smiled  and 
whispered. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  officers  a  hollow-eyed  woman 
trudged,  wringing  her  hands  and  muttering  in  an  in- 

103 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

audible  voice.  Her  face  was  a  very  emblem  of  poverty 
in  despair. 

As  the  little  mob  reached  Muriel's  feet  the  oflficer 
whom  the  man  assailed  let  go  his  hold  on  the  girl 
and  seized  his  tormentor  by  the  lapels  of  his  coat 
and  held  him  fast  while  he  spoke  to  him  in  one  of 
those  high  wiry  sopranos  that  certain  big  brave  Irish- 
men have  received  by  mistake — ^and  employ  without  a 
hint  of  effeminacy: 

"Look  here  now,  Balinsky,  I've  been  patient,  but  I'm 
wore  out.  I'm  sorry  for  you,  but  orders  is  orders  and 
the  lah  is  the  lah.  I  hate  what  I'm  doin'  worse  than 
annyt'thing  I've  ever  done,  but  I've  got  to  do  it.  I'm 
after  tellin'  ye  till  I'm  tired  that  it's  not  for  me  to  I'ave  her 
go.  It's  not  for  nobody  to  I'ave  her  go,  unless  it's  President 
Wilson  himself.  I've  stood  for  all  the  pullin'  and  hahlin' 
I'm  goin'  ta,  and  if  you  lay  hand  on  me  again  I'll  slam  you 
into  a  cell  for  interferin'  and  assahlt  and  bat'thry  and 
contimpt  and — and  you'll  not  even  be  down  to  the  boat 
to  see  the  gerl  off." 

This  threat  silenced  the  man  for  a  moment.  He  put 
back  his  head  and  sent  his  gaze  up  into  the  blistering 
glare  of  the  sun,  and  his  throat  worked  in  either  prayer  or 
blasphemy,  Muriel  could  not  tell  which.  But  it  moved 
her  to  intervene  timidly: 

"Officer,  pardon  me — but  what  is  the  matter?  What 
has  the  poor  thing  done  that  you're  arresting  her?" 

The  mob  all  turned  to  the  voice  from  overhead.  The 
policeman,  who  felt  the  need  of  a  little  sympathy  for  his 
own  unpitied  estate,  looked  gratefully  up  at  Muriel's 
beauty.  The  sight  of  her  and  her  comfortable  equipage 
and  her  gentle  voice  made  an  oasis.  He  took  off  his  hat, 
wiped  the  dripping  sweat-band,  and,  leaning  on  the  car 
door  with  the  familiarity  of  authority,  explained,  while 
the  knot  gathered  about,  watching  Muriel  as  if  she  were  a 
judge  in  a  high  place. 

He  made  a  long  story  of  it,  but  he  had  an  ulterior 

104 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

motive,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  gaining  time  by  spending 
it  in  winning  over  a  nice  lady  with  an  automobile. 

"You  see,  it's  like  this.  Miss.  I  never  made  a  hahl 
I  was  so  ashamed  of,  but  it's  me  duty.  This  poor  felly 
Balinsky  has  been  gettin'  the  worst  of  it  over  there  in 
Rooshian  Poland  and  now  he's  gettin'  still  worser  over 
here.  Over  there  he  heard  that  America  was  the  land  of 
the  free,  and  all  that  old  guff.  The  agents  of  the  steam- 
ship companies  goes  about  lyin'  to  those  people  to  get 
them  to  buy  tickets  and  come  over  here.  They  promise 
all  sorts  of  things  to  the  poor  boobs.  They  buncoed  this 
man  Balinsky  that  way.  His  wife  has  a  brother  that's 
livin'  here  these  twenty  years.  That's  him  there — the 
old  one — Sokalski  his  name  is.  The  Lord  knows  he's  had 
rough  goin'  enough  to  have  tipped  off  Balinsky  more  betther 
than  to  come  over,  but  he  did.  And  at  that  maybe  it's 
worse  yet  in  Rooshia.  Annyhow,  Balinsky  hides  his  wife 
and  his  pretty  dahter  away  from  the  persecutioners  and 
over  he  comes  to  here.  And  he  likes  it,  and  by  workin'  like 
a  dog  and  eatin'  nothin'  he  saves  enough  to  send  over  the 
money  for  to  bring  them  across. 

"Well,  across  the  pond  they  come  and  they  get  through 
Ellis  Island  without  a  bit  of  throuble — no  tracomy,  or 
annyt 'thing  to  turn  them  back. 

"They're  as  happy  here  as  only  the  likes  of  them  could 
be  who  can  thank  God  for  not  bein'  massacred  ivery 
mamin'  because  the  Rooshians  want  a  bit  of  rifle  practice. 
Thin  comes  these  hard  times  and  all  their  savin's  is  gone 
and  they're  hard  put  to  it  to  keep  souls  in  their  bodies. 

"  On'y  for  Mr.  Sokalski  here,  who  has  a  family  of  his  own 
at  that,  they'd  have  gone  on  the  charities.  Then  last  week 
only  poor  Balinsky  gets  a  job  and  comes  runnin'  home 
with  the  good  news,  and  what  does  he  find  but  his  daughter 
has  gone  to  maunderin', 

"Had  ye  noticed  how  when  ye  hurry  home  with  good 
news  there's  ahlways  bad  news  there  ahead  of  ye? 

"Well,  annyhow,  this  poor  gerl— Rachel  her  name  is — ^is 
4  105 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

turned  to  what  you  can  see.  She's  babblin',  and  wouldn't 
the  smile  of  her  cut  your  heart  in  two,  now?  BaHnsky 
runs  for  the  docther  and  the  docther  sends  her  to  the 
horspital.  And  then  the  throuble  begins,  for  the  lah 
requires  the  horspital  to  report  it  to  the  Immigration 
Board,  and  the  lah  requires  the  Board  to  deport  the  pore 
thing." 

"Deport  her?"  Muriel  gasped.  "Send  her  back  to 
Russia?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  that's  the  lah.  If  you  come  over  to  this 
country  they  '11  turn  you  back  if  you  have  eye  throubles  or 
poverty  or  brain  throubles.  If  you've  none  of  them  they 
give  you  a  year  of  grace.  But  if  you  develop  them  within 
the  year,  back  you  go,  were  you  the  Imperor  himself. 
There's  no  'If,'  'And,'  or  'But'  about  it.  The  lah  says, 
*  Back  to  where  you  come  from.' " 

"  It's  a  horrible  law,"  Muriel  cried. 

"Maybe,  but  it's  for  the  protection  of  us  that's  here." 

"But  you  can't  send  a  poor  girl  like  that  back  alone. 
Has  she  any  relatives  there?" 

"  No,  they're  all  over  here.  Her  mother  will  have  to  go 
with  her.  That's  the  bad  of  it.  They're  not  wanted 
there,  and  they'll  suffer  the  more  for  runnin'  away.  But 
they  can't  stay  here  whatever.  I  didn't  want  to  bring  the 
patrol-wagon  up  and  disgrace  them,  and  I  hate  to  take  the 
women  through  the  streets  like  they  was  crooks.  But 
lah's  lah  and  I'm  only  a  cop.  I  was  wonderin'  could  you 
— you  see,  there's  no  cabs  to  be  had  down  here  for  love 
nor  money.  And  the  sun  is  b'atin'  down  on  the  bare 
heads  of  them  and — " 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Muriel,  reluctantly  enough,  but  more 
ashamed  to  refuse  than  to  consent.  When  Jacques 
Parny  understood  he  was  infuriated,  but  Muriel  quieted 
him  with  a  glare.  "And  does  the  poor  husband  go  back, 
too?"  she  asked. 

The  officer  shook  his  head.  "That  s  the  worst  of  it  all. 
He  daren't  go  back.    He  would  starve  or  be  killed." 

io6 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Balinsky,  who  had  listened  desperately,  hung  his  pitifui 
face  over  the  edge  of  the  car.  He  had  gained  the  impres- 
sion from  the  policeman's  deference  that  Muriel  must  be 
a  personage  of  authority.  He  put  his  hands  out  to  her, 
palms  himgrily  open  and  twitching,  and  he  prayed  to  her: 

"Lady,  please  —  fine  lady,  dun't  let  dem  sended  my 
femmily  beck  by  Rossia.  You  dun't  know  vat  dey  do 
to  us,  dose  Cossacks — to  keel  is  not  all.  I  cannot  go  beck 
minesulf.  My  vife  should  die  and  nobody  makes  care 
by  mein  Rachel.  Lady — ^lady — ^nice  lady!  I  esk  you. 
Pleass!" 

The  mother  crept  forward,  too,  and  stretched  out  lean 
hands  whose  fingers  struggled  together  in  an  anguish  of 
appeal.  She  had  wept  her  voice  almost  away,  and  her 
plea  was  in  a  raucous  whisper;  her  wept-out  eyes  were 
dry  and  dull.  Muriel  could  neither  hear  nor  understand 
the  language  she  used,  but  her  eyes  and  her  frantic  hands 
were  unendurably  eloquent. 

The  old  man  Sokalski  added  his  low  prayer.  Then  a 
girl  appeared  on  the  other  side  of  the  car — a  very  beauti- 
ful girl,  with  no  hat  or  veil  to  hide  the  slumberous  glow  of 
her  hair.  Muriel  noted  how  like  in  color  it  was  to  her  own 
hair. 

The  girl  motioned  Muriel  closer  and  spoke  softly,  with 
hardly  more  of  dialect  than  a  foreignness  of  intonation: 

"Lady — you  shoiild  do  something  if  you  could  by 
Mr.  Balinsky.  He  is  the  brother  of  my  mother.  I  am 
Maryla  Sokalska.  Mr.  Balinsky  did  live  by  us  in  Orchard 
Street.  He  work  so  hard  for  the  money  to  bring  his  wife 
and  that  poor  girl,  their  daughter.  If  they  go  back  he 
says  he  will  make  himself  dead,  for  he  knows  they  will 
die,  too.  Here  they  are  happy;  the  poor  girl  gets  well 
some  day.     But  if  you  let  them  go,  all  will  die." 

"  If  I  let  them  go !' '  Muriel  cried.     ' '  What  can  I  do  ?" 

"Somebody  can  do  something.  It  must _ be  so.  In 
this  good  coimtry  it  is  not  meant  that  the  law  shotild  kill 
three  good  people  who  work  hard  and  do  no  wrong.     In 

107 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Russia,  yes.  There  they  butcher  the  Jews,  they  rob  them 
and  beat  them  and  drive  them  Hke  sheep  to  the  shears. 
But  not  in  America.     It  is  not  meant  to  be  so  in  America." 

"No,  no,  it  must  not  be  so."  Miuiel  groaned.  "Some- 
body must  stop  it." 

"Who  will,  if  not  you?"  said  Maryla. 

Muriel  never  forgot  those  qiiiet  words.  They  were 
like  a  motto  for  a  life:   "Who  will,  if  not  you?" 

The  officer  attempted  now  to  move  into  the  car  he  had 
commandeered.  But  at  the  first  effort  to  lift  the  BaHnsky 
girl  into  the  tonneau  her  mother  and  father  broke  forth 
into  such  shrieks  that  Miiriel  waved  them  away. 

"You  can't  use  my  car  for  any  such  outrage,"  she 
stormed  at  the  policeman.  "If  you're  a  man  you'll  quit 
tormenting  these  poor  souls." 

The  officer  glanced  along  the  hot  street  and  sighed  to  his 
companion: 

"Come  on,  Ludwig.     We've  got  to  foot  it." 

"Wait,  wait!"  Muriel  protested.  "It's  impossible  that 
such  a  wicked  thing  should  be  done." 

"It's  done  ahl  the  time.  Miss,"  said  Morahan. 

Muriel  spoke  up  with  the  positiveness  of  a  spoiled 
child.  "Well,  it's  not  going  to  be  done  this  time!  I'll 
go  to  the  Immigration  Board  myself!" 

The  policeman  smiled  at  her  warlike  tone.  "You'll 
have  to  go  higher  than  that." 

"Then  I'U  go  to  Washington.  I'll  make  my  father 
make  the  President  stop  it." 

She  believed  that  her  father  could  do  almost  anything 
he  wanted  to;  and  she  could  make  him  do  almost  any- 
thing she  wanted  him  to. 

She  would  go  to  him  at  once.     He  was  probably  at 
home,  wondering  where  she  was.     But  he  might  have  been  . 
delayed  at  his  office.     Since  she  was  so  far  down-town  she 
would  make  the  try. 

"Jacques,"  she  said,  "au  bureau  de  mon  pkre." 

io8 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Jacques  muttered  that  it  was  high  time,  and,  warning 
the  crowd  away  with  voice  and  horn,  sent  the  car  hum- 
ming. Muriel  called  back  to  the  despondent  suppliants: 
"Don't  worry.  My  father  will  save  them." 
As  Muriel  was  whisked  round  the  comer  into  James 
Street  she  saw  the  two  policemen  pressing  forward  and  the 
mournful  flock  trudging  after. 


CHAPTER  XTIT 

THE  car  hurried  with  impatience  along  the  twisted 
path  of  Water  Street,  under  Brooklyn  Bridge,  and 
on  to  Wall  Street,  and  up  Wall  Street  to  the  new  sky- 
scraper that  housed  the  bank  of  which  the  present  Jacob 
Schuyler  was  the  third  president  of  the  name. 

His  private  office  was  on  the  seventeenth  floor.  Muriel 
had  seen  it  only  once  or  twice  in  her  life.  She  approached 
it  without  the  awe  of  the  usual  visitor.  She  called  to  the 
office-boy,  "Is  my  father  in?"  and  rushed  past  him 
without  formality.  The  oration  she  planned  was  equally 
informal.  But  when  she  bolted  into  the  throne-room  she 
found  another  man  with  her  father. 

Old  Schuyler  nearly  went  over  backward  in  his  swivel- 
chair  at  Muriel's  irruption.  When  she  paused  at  the 
sight  of  the  stranger  he  said : 

"Come  in — come  in.  It's  only  Mr.  Merithew.  You've 
met,  haven't  you?" 

"We  have  now,  to  my  great  delight,"  said  Perry,  rising 
and  putting  out  his  hand  without  waiting  for  hers. 

She  gave  her  hand  into  his,  and  her  smile  was  more 
cordial  than  her  father's  as  he  watched  the  meeting.  He 
meant  to  cut  it  short  when  he  said : 

"Well,  yotmg  lady,  I'm  not  home  yet,  as  you  see. 
Been  detained  here  by  a  dozen  things  that  have  turned 
up." 

"Of  which  I  am  one,"  said  Perry. 

Jacob  ignored  him:  "Have  you  seen  the  new  books, 
Muriel?"' 

"No,  I  haven't.    Fact  is,  I  broke  in  on  you  because — " 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"How  much?" 

"Five  thousand  dollars  in  cash." 

"Stop  joking!  I'm  feeling  poor  to-day?  That  library- 
cost  me  a  hundred  thousand  and  I'm —  What  do  you 
want  with  all  that  money,  anyway?  Did  you  run  over 
somebody?" 

"Yes,  but  that  isn't  it.  And  maybe  you'll  have  to 
take  a  trip  to  Washington  for  me." 

"Good  Lord!  There's  nobody  in  Washington  in  this 
weather  except  the  poor  President." 

"He's  the  man  I  want  you  to  see.  You  may  not  have 
to  go,  though,  but —  Well,  an3rway,  you've  got  to  keep 
the  Immigration  Board  from  deporting  a  poor  girl  who  is 
feeble-minded." 

"They  can't  deport  you  for  a  motor  accident,"  was 
Jacob's  pathetic  quip. 

She  smiled  politely  as  she  ran  on:  "And  I  want  the  five 
thousand  dollars  to  ransom  a  poor  little  ItaHan  boy 
with.     He  has  been  kidnapped." 

"Great  Scott!  What  you  really  want,  Muriel,  is  a 
doctor.  Your  mother  said  it  was  wrong  to  bring  you  to 
town  in  aU  this  heat." 

Muriel  grew  impatient  and  fiercely  earnest. 

"Now,  you've  got  to  give  this  to  me.  Daddy.  It's 
terribly  important.  And  you've  got  to  use  your  influence 
to —  But  I'll  wait  tiU  you've  finished  your  business  with 
Mr.  Merithew." 

"Don't  go  on  my  accoimt,"  said  Perry.  "I'm  here  on 
the  same  errand.  I  ran  over  your  yacht  in  my  plane  this 
morning,  and  it  reminded  me  that  your  father  would  have 
a  lot  of  money  loafing  around  that  I  could  use.  So  I  took 
the  train  into  town  and  caught  him  on  the  wing.  Please 
don't  give  her  my  five  thousand  dollars,  Mr.  Schuyler." 

Jacob  sniffed,  "  Don't  worry,  I  haven't  any  money  that 
belongs  to  either  of  you." 

Muriel  protested,  "But  this  is  to  save  a  little  kidnapped 
boy  from  being  killed  by  the  Black  Hand." 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"And  mine,"  said  Merithew,  "is  to  save  an  old  Elnicker- 
!x>cker  from  being  kidnapped  by  a  little  blackmailer." 

Jacob  frowned,  but  Mviriel  did  not  understand.  She 
poured  forth  the  story  of  the  Italian  mother.  Her  father, 
who  was  the  eternal  target  for  narratives  of  woe,  was 
touched  more  by  her  distress  than  by  what  she  described, 
while  Perry  Merithew,  who  knew  little  of  such  things,  was 
moved  to  copious  tears.  He  was  an  ardent  and  sincere 
sentimentalist.  Otherwise  he  could  not  have  been  such  a 
success — or  was  he  a  failure? — ^wdth  women. 

When,  at  the  end  of  the  recital,  Muriel  asked  again  for 
money,  her  father  slowly  shook  his  head.  Perry  Merithew 
was  almost  as  horrified  as  Muriel  was.  She  stormed  and 
wheedled,  but  Jacob  shook  his  head  coldly. 

Being  an  American  father,  he  was  used  to  the  rebukes 
of  his  children  and  rather  felt  pride  in  their  earnestness 
than  anger  at  their  lack  of  piety.  He  condescended  to 
explain: 

"My  dear  little  girl,  I  was  reading  only  the  other 
morning  about  another  such  boy.  The  paper  said  that  a 
hundred  and  fifty  Italian  children  have  been  kidnapped 
in  the  last  few  years.  All  their  mothers  must  have  suf- 
fered agonies.  Suppose  I  had  tried  to  buy  all  those 
children  back  at  five  thousand  dollars  apiece.  That 
would  cost  me  seven  himdred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars. 
It  wouldn't  leave  much  money  for  the  other  poor  people, 
would  it?  But  it  would  cause  the  kidnapping  of  hundreds 
of  other  children,  wouldn't  it?" 

Muriel  could  not  endure  generalizations.  She  could 
not  visualize  the  miseries  of  the  world  by  wholesale. 
She  could  see  only  those  Angelillo  women  clinging  to  each 
other  and  crying  to  the  world  to  save  their  child  from 
torment. 

She  planted  herself  on  her  father's  desk  and  thrust  to 
the  floor  the  unimportant  papers  of  mere  banking  value. 
She  talked  to  the  old  man  as  to  a  child,  pleading,  promising 

112 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

never  to  bother  him  again  if  he  would  yield  only  this  once, 
appealing  to  his  generosity,  and  pictiiring  again  the  scene 
she  had  witnessed.  He  watched  her  with  soft  eyes,  but  his 
mouth  was  firm  and  his  head  swimg  back  and  forth  with 
never  a  dip  of  consent. 

At  length  Perry  Merithew  cried  out  in  a  burst  of  emotion 
as  he  swallowed  hard  and  batted  his  wet  eyelids : 

"I'll  tell  you.  Miss  Muriel,  you  persuade  your  father 
to  lend  me  ten  thousand,  and  I'll  give  you  half  of  it." 

Muriel  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  She  saw  the 
tenderness  in  his  eyes,  and  she  felt  that  her  father,  her 
cruel  father,  must  have  slandered  him.  She  accepted 
his  proffer  with  enthusiasm. 

"Splendid!"  said  Muriel.  "And  you  can  come  to  the 
slums  and  see  how  they  take  it." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Perry.  "The  New  York  slums 
are  the  last  place  you'll  ever  find  me." 

"Then  I'll  tell  them  it  was  your  money.  You'll  lend 
Mr.  Merithew  the  ten  thousand.  Daddy,  won't  you? — 
please !  for  my  sake. ' ' 

"It  is  hardly  a  bankable  proposition,"  said  Jacobs 
turning  and  gazing  out  of  the  window  at  the  panorama 
of  the  city,  the  river  and  the  bay,  all  spread  out  before 
him  like  a  possession.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  how 
much  of  it  he  owned.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  how 
many  people  under  that  multitude  of  roofs  would  be 
saved  from  despair,  perhaps  to  triumph,  by  that  five 
thousand  dollars  which  Muriel  wanted  to  tiim  over  to  a 
gang  of  criminals  (pour  encourager  les  autres)  or  which 
Perry  Merithew  wanted  to  pay  out  as  a  belated  instalment 
on  one  of  his  love-affairs. 

No !  Money  was  not  meant  to  be  profaned  by  such  reck- 
less abuse  of  either  good  or  bad  motives. 

Schuyler  got  rid  of  Merithew  by  a  rigid  economy  of 
courtesy,  and  Perry  bowed  himself  out  with  well-masked 
chagrin.     Muriel  pressed  his  hand,  and  thanked  him  in 

113 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

superlatives,  and  felt  that  she  had  lost  a  noble  champion 
when  he  had  gone. 

Jacob  turned  to  Muriel  for  an  account  of  her  "escapade " 
as  he  called  it — and  it  had  been  an  escape  for  her,  from 
the  ignorance  and  indolence  of  her  sheltered  life. 

Jacob  was  touched  by  the  miseries  of  Muriel's  clients, 
but  then  he  knew  so  many  others  in  even  worse  distress. 
His  ofRce  hours  as  a  banker  had  been  largely  devoted  to 
hearing  the  hard-luck  stories  and  the  wild  necessities  of 
men  no  less  desperate  for  playing  with  big  stakes,  or 
facing  long  pay-rolls  with  short  cash. 

Furthermore,  as  a  rich  man,  Jacob  Schuyler  was  as- 
sailed everywhere  he  went  with  appeals  for  alms.  He 
could  have  spent  his  entire  fortune  every  day  without 
satisfying  the  greed  of  charity,  which  is  one  of  the  horse- 
leech's recently  adopted  daughters  and,  like  the  grave, 
never  says  "enough." 

Like  an  old  doctor,  he  was  hardened  to  the  cries  of 
distress.  The  only  new  thing  in  the  situation  was  the 
fact  that  his  daughter  had  broken  away  from  all  the  safe- 
guards he  had  built  about  her,  and  run  amuck  among  the 
tenements  rife  with  disease  and  countless  perils  to  a  yoimg 
girl. 

This  alarmed  him  more  than  any  story  of  kidnapping 
or  deportation.  He  told  Muriel  so,  and  alarmed  her  with 
his  unsuspected  coldness.     She  told  him  so. 

He  pressed  a  button  in  his  desk  and  his  secretary, 
Mr.  Chivot,  was  there  as  by  apparition,  bowing  to  Muriel 
and  waiting.     Jacob  said: 

"Miss  Muriel  has  run  across  an  Italian  atrocity  and  a 
harrowing  case  of  deportation.  She  will  give  you  the 
names  and  data.  Get  a  detective  and  our  charity  man 
at  work  on  them  at  once.  Tell  'em  to  do  what's  necessary, 
and  if  I  can  help  let  me  know.  Give  Mr.  Chivot  the 
facts,  Muriel,  and  everything  will  be  done  the  best  way." 

"But  I—" 

Jacob  was  gone.    He  walked  out  to  the  anteroom  and 

114 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

instructed  a  clerk  to  telephone  his  yacht  to  be  ready ;  also 
to  telephone  the  town  house  that  dinner  need  not  be 
served,  and  the  country  house  that  it  need. 

When  he  returned,  Muriel  was  smothering  the  impas- 
sive Chivot  with  passionate  appeals,  and  he  was  assuring 
her  that  nothing  would  be  left  undone. 

"It  better  hadn't,"  she  said  with  childish  threat. 
"I'll  be  down  the  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

"We'll  go  home  to  dinner  now,"  said  Jacob. 

They  went  down  in  the  elevator  to  the  car  and  Jacob 
spoke  to  Pamy  in  an  luidertone.  The  car  made  good 
speed  northward,  and  at  Twenty-third  Street  veered  east. 

"But  this  isn't  the  way  home,"  said  Muriel. 

"Oh  yes,  it  is,"  said  Jacob.     "The  yacht's  ready." 

"But  I'm  not  going  out  there.  I'm  stopping  in  town 
to-night." 

"Oh  no,  you're  not." 

"I  am  so!     If  you  don't  let  me  out,  I'U  jump." 

"Oh  no,  you  won't." 

"Then  I'll  scream  and  draw  a  crowd." 

"Oh  no,  you  won't." 

And  of  course  she  didn't.  Soldiers  do  not  disobey 
their  officers  on  parade,  and  thoroughly  bred  girls  do  not 
scream  in  the  street  on  any  account. 

At  the  landing-station  Muriel  permitted  her  father  to 
take  her  arm  and  coerce  her  gently  into  the  launch  and 
thence  aboard  the  yacht. 

She  watched  New  York  taken  away  from  her  and  she 
chewed  the  bitter  cud  of  oppression.  Her  lips  twitched 
with  her  humiliation  and  with  resolutions  of  rebellion. 
Then  her  heart  would  race  with  terror  and  pity  at  the  fate 
of  the  little  Angelillo  boy,  and  she  would  blench  to  think 
how  that  mother  and  the  Balinsky  mother  would  be 
denouncing  her  as  a  deserter  who  promised  salvation  and 
took  the  gratitude  and  never  came  back. 

At  dinner  her  father  described  her  actions  to  her  mother, 

115 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

and  Muriel  flashed  in  a  nursery  phrase,  but  in  all  serious- 
ness: 

'  I  never  thought  you'd  tell  mother  on  me.  I'll  never 
trust  you  again." 

Jacob  was  bitterly  hurt  at  this.  He  was  more  of  an 
old  woman  about  his  children  than  their  mother  was. 

Mrs.  Susan  Schuyler  delivered  Muriel  a  proper  lecture 
on  her  duties  to  herself  and  to  others.  She  had  just  reached 
the  De  Quinceyan  height  of  saying: 

"There's  no  crime  like  being  inconsiderate,  my  child. 
People  who  are  nice  about  their  persons  do  not  wander 
in  the  slums.  And  even  if  you  are  careless  yourself  you 
have  no  right  to  risk  bringing  Heaven  knows  what  germs 
into  your  home.  Try  to  think  of  others  a  Httle,  my 
dear." 

Muriel  was  trying  not  to  think  that  her  darling  mother 
was  a  heartless  fiend  when  suddenly  she  forgot  her  and 
interrupted  her  with  a  choking  soimd  as  if  she  had  caught 
a  fish  bone  in  her  throat. 

"What  in  Heaven's  name!"  cried  her  mother. 

"Look  up!"  cried  Jacob,  but  Muriel  groaned. 

"My  doctor,  my  nice  yoimg  ambulance  doctor!  I  had 
an  engagement  to  tea  with  him  in  town.  What  will  he 
think!" 

The  rest  of  the  dinner  was  funeral-baked  meats  to  the 
parents.  They  shook  their  heads  over  their  daughter  as 
if  she  had  got  her  name  into  a  scandal-sheet.  In  one 
busy  day  she  had  kicked  over  all  the  structure  they  had 
made  of  her  life  and  her  ideals. 

But  she  was  worrying  about  the  proper  form  of  apology 
to  the  young  doctor.  She  felt  more  than  ashamed  for  her 
discourtesy.  She  felt  that  she  had  woimded  a  dear 
friend.  She  saw  him  tvimed  away  from  her  door  in  New 
York,  angered,  humiliated,  bewildered. 

She  went  into  the  telephone-closet  and  worked  over  the 
book,  running  her  finger  up  and  down  the  wrong  page  and 

ii6 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

getting  her  alphabet  horribly  twisted,  as  women  do  when 
they  approach  an  index.  When  she  had  pursued  Bellevue 
Hospital  to  its  lair,  and  while  she  was  repeating  the  number 
to  herself  and  smiling  already  with  cordiality  over  the 
apologies  she  would  make  to  the  charming,  brilliant, 
heroic  Dr.  Worthing,  the  telephone  rang  at  her  ear.  She 
answered  it,  coldly: 

"Well?" 

"Is  this  Mr.  Schuyler's  house?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  Miss  Muriel  Schuyler  at  home?" 

"I'll  see.     Who  wants  her?" 

"This  is  the  Yacht  Club.  Mr.  Merithew  would  like 
to  speak  to  her." 

"All  right." 

Another  voice,  peremptorily:    "Hello,  hello!" 

Muriel  in  her  own  voice:   "Hello." 

"Miss  Schuyler,  please." 

"This  is  Miss  Schuyler." 

The  same  voice  with  maple  syrup  poured  over  it:  "Oh, 
how  do  you  do?" 

"How  do  you  do!" 

"I  say,  Miss  Schuyler — ' 

"Yes,  Mr.  Merithew." 

"I've  got  it." 

"Got  what,  Mr.  Merithew?" 

"Your  five  thousand  dollars." 

A  squeal  of  incredulous  joy:   "No!" 

"Umm-humm!  Met  a  friend  who's  been  selling  the 
market  short  and  touched  him  for  ten.  So  I'm  going  to 
ransom  your  little  Dago  for  you." 

"You're  an  angel!" 

"Thanks." 

"Will  you  send  the  money  over — or  perhaps  you'd 
rather  bring  it?" 

"Neither.     You've  got  to  earn  it." 

"How?" 

117 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"They're  dancing  here  to-night,  and  you've  got  to  come 
over  and  give  me  one  maxixe." 

"H'm.     I  don't  see  how  I  can,  very  well." 

"Not  for  five  thousand  dollars  for  one  dance?  That's 
more  than  the  Castles  get  for  a  whole  week." 

"Well,  I--er— " 

She  had  seen  that  Perry  Merithew  was  not  afraid  of 
anything.  He  was  not  afraid  even  of  proposing  such  an 
adventtire  to  her.  But  she  was  just  a  little  afraid  of  him. 
Still,  his  voice  was  indescribably  gentle,  as  he  pleaded: 

"Not  for  the  little  Italian  boy's  sake?  Salome  danced 
a  man's  head  off;  you  can  dance  a  boy's  head  on." 

"  Well,  of  course,  when  you  put  it  that  way." 

"The  orchestra's  fine  to-night,  too.  Just  as  we  finish 
that  hand-twirling  business  in  the  maxixe  you'll  find  five 
thousand  dollars  in  your  palm,  and  nobody  else  needs  to 
know  but  you  and  me." 

"We-ell,  all  ri-ight." 

Her  voice  was  slow,  but  her  heart  was  drumming  like  a 
startled  partridge. 


She  talked  to  the  old  man  as  to  a,  child,  pleading,  promising 


irer  to  bother  him  again,  if  he  would  yield  only  this  once. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MURIEL  sat  back  from  the  telephone  and  stared  at 
it  with  awe.  It  was  like  the  mouth  of  a  gargoyle, 
and  a  kind  of  curse  hung  about  its  black  lips.  With 
syllables  of  light  enchantment  it  had  offered  her  an  ad- 
venture. But  sweet  words  swiftly  lose  their  savor  in  the 
ear,  as  candies  grow  sour  upon  the  tongue. 

To  steal  away  from  home  to  a  yacht  club  and  dance 
with  a  married  man  of  whom  her  father  disapproved  and 
whose  name  she  dared  not  mention  to  her  mother — that 
did  not  sound  well  in  the  remembrance. 

But  to  refuse  to  go  and  by  refusing  end  the  hopes  of  the 
pitiful  Italian  mother  whose  stolen  child  she  had  prom- 
ised to  ransom — that  was  not  pretty,  either. 

Why  did  she  fret?  Everybody  danced.  The  place 
was  respectable.  The  crowd  about  her  would  be  the  select 
coterie  usual  at  the  Yacht  Club — husbands  and  fathers, 
wives  and  daughters,  and  reputable  bachelors  and  spinsters. 

She  wondered  that  she  was  making  so  much  of  a  prob- 
lem of  it.  If  one  of  the  fellows  she  played  with  had  dared 
her  to  sneak  through  a  window  and  go  out  in  a  motor-boat 
to  skim  the  creamy  moonlight  off  the  Sound  she  would 
have  thought  it  a  lark;  and  if  the  young  man  got  foolish 
she  would  smack  his  face  for  him  and  accept  his  apology, 
finish  the  cruise,  and  sneak  home  in  the  deHcious  fatigue 
of  a  harmless  mischief. 

But  there  was  something  about  Mr.  Merithew  that  was 
uncanny  to  her.  She  cotild  not  know  yet  what  it  was. 
He  invited  her  to  dance  with  him  in  a  brilliantly  lighted 
room  in  a  large  crowd.    At  the  end  of  the  dance  he  was 

123 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

to  give  her  five  thousand  dollars  for  a  charity.  It  was 
a  deal  of  money  and  it  meant  a  great  deal  to  him.  Why 
should  she  hesitate?  The  dance  was  just  a  little  graceful 
tribute  to  her;  something  less  trite  than  inclosing  the 
money  with  a  sheaf  of  roses.  That  was  aU,  and  yet, 
why  did  she  feel  uneasy  ?  It  was  the  high  stake,  perhaps. 
Yes,  it  must  be  the  high  stake. 

She  had  a  brother  who  was  always  betting  on  every- 
thing; sometimes  when  he  was  motoring  he  would  play  a 
kind  of  mental  poker  based  upon  the  license  numbers  of 
approaching  automobiles. 

She  had  noticed  that  the  stupidest  thing  became  thrill- 
ing when  it  involved  money.  To  dance  once  for  five 
thousand  dollars!  To  dance  to  save  a  child  from  being 
cut  up  into  parcels  for  the  post — ^how  could  that  fail  to 
excite  her? 

She  herself  lacked  the  true  gambling  instinct.  She 
would  play  bridge  or  euchre  or,  on  the  sly,  poker;  she 
would  play  for  nothing  or  for  burnt  matches  or  pebbles 
and  love  the  game.  But  she  had  friends  who  always 
wanted  to  play  for  every  cent  they  had  or  she  had. 

That  spirit  was  what  she  surmised  in  Perry  Merithew's 
amiable  manner.  Perry  Merithew  was  a  high-stake 
gambler.  He  never  wanted  to  quit  till  he  or  his  opponent 
was  bankrupt.  The  game  he  liked  best  of  all  and  gambled 
upon  most  desperately  was  the  flirtation  game  vrith  a 
woman  for  adversary  and  the  last  favors  for  stakes. 

Other  people  flirted,  ogled,  philandered,  spooned  per- 
haps a  little,  and  parted.  When  Perry  Merithew  took 
interest  enough  in  a  woman  to  cross  glances  with  her  it 
was  no  fencing-bout  for  points,  it  was  a  duel  a  Voutrance. 

It  brought  him  to  a  shameful  death  eventually.  Muriel 
could  not  foresee  this,  of  cotirse,  but  she  felt  a  certain 
desperateness  about  the  man.  There  is  an  instinct  that 
young  things  are  bom  wild  with.  Canaries,  mice,  chil- 
dren, all  have  to  be  tamed,  no  matter  how  domesticated 
their  parents  are.     Instinct  is  independent  of  experience: 

124 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

it  is  the  racial  memory  that  warns  the  young  from  dan- 
gers their  ancestors  suffered  from.  The  activities  of  the 
Perry  Merithews  are  not  for  the  welfare  or  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  race.     They  have  to  steal  upon  the  Muriels. 

It  was  such  an  instinct  that  rendered  Muriel  peculiarly 
uneasy  about  Perry  Merithew.  Suddenly  her  muscles 
sent  her  hand  out  to  the  telephone  to  call  him  up  and 
cancel  the  engagement.  But  when  Central  m.urmured 
"Nummmba,  please!"  she  said  "Never  mind!"  and  set 
the  receiver  back  on  the  hook.  She  thought  again  of  the 
duty  she  owed  the  parents  of  the  kidnapped  child.  She 
reproached  herself  for  being  a  coward.  What  difference 
did  it  make  what  Mr.  Merithew  was?  She  could  take 
care  of  herself  anywhere. 

This  sort  of  Ophelia  soliloquy  must  be  a  frequent  ex- 
perience in  the  souls  of  young  women.  Great  battles  are 
thought  out  under  their  fantastic  coiffures. 

Muriel's  thoughts  were  caught  from  Perry  by  the 
memory  of  Dr.  Worthing.  She  looked  up  the  ntmiber  of 
the  hospital  once  more  and,  calling  it,  brought  to  the  very 
porch  of  her  ear  the  voice  of  the  distant  young  man. 

"Is  this  Dr.  Worthing?"  she  said,  and  had  back  an 
indifferent : 

"Yes." 

"This  is  Miss  Schuyler." 

" Oh."  It  was  just  a  syllable,  yet  it  conveyed,  "So  you 
are  the  young  woman  who  invites  strange  gentlemen 
to  tea  in  a  closed-up  house  and  neither  appears  nor  sends 
word  to  the  servants;  you  leave  your  guest  to  be  treated 
like  a  burglar  scouting  for  information.  And  now,  after 
abandoning  me  on  your  door-step  for  half  an  hour,  you 
have  the  front  to  call  me  up  several  hours  later." 

All  this  Muriel  read  in  his  monosyllable.  Much  ca- 
pacity in  an  "Oh!" 

She  cried:  "I'm  just  too  terribly  sorry  for  words.  Dr. 
Worthing.     I  wouldn't  have  had  it  happen  for  worlds,  not 

125 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

for  worlds !  But,  you  see,  my  father  carried  me  off.  Simply 
dragged  me  home  by  the  hair  of  the  head.  He  wouldn't 
let  me  stop  to  telephone  or  anything.  I  absolutely 
could  not  get  away  from  him  a  single  minute." 

"Oh,"  was  again  the  sole  comment.  But  now  it  said 
to  her:  "So  that's  it!  I  imderstand.  I  feel  better.  I 
thought  I  wasn't  mistaken  in  trusting  you.  Please  don't 
worry  about  it  another  minute.  I  thought  you  had  for- 
gotten me,  and  now  I  find  that  you  were  remembering 
me  all  the  time." 

At  least  this  much  she  extracted  from  that  versatile 
"Oh!"     Then  she  shrilled  along  the  wire: 

"Can  you  ever  forgive  me?  Of  course  you  can't,  but 
will  you?" 

"I'll  try,"  he  said  with  a  comfortable  chuckle. 

"And  will  you  also  try  to  keep  one  more  engagement? 
It's  awfully  important,  you  know." 

"Is  it  another  tea-party?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"Oh  no.  This  time  I —  Well,  are  you  going  to  be  up 
early  in  the  morning?" 

"Doctors  don't  have  early  or  late.  All  hours  look  alike 
to  the  poor  doctor.     What  time  you  going  to  be  up?" 

"I  hope  to  reach  New  York  before  ten." 

"And  you  want  me  to  call  at  your  house? — again?" 

"You'd  never  trust  me  again.     Let  me  come  to  you." 

"You  to  me!" 

"Would  it  be  very  improper? — there  at  the  hospital?" 

"  Dozens  of  women  come  here  every  day.  They  are  sad 
sights,  most  of  them,  not  at  all  like  you." 

She  clipped  this  short:  "Then  I'll  call  for  you  at  about 
ten  o'clock?" 

"I'll  be  here." 

"And  you've  found  out  about  the  boy?  There  is  hope 
for  him?" 

"Yes;  it  requires  an  operation,  but  it's  a  beautiful 
one." 

"  Ugh  I    How  can  you  call  an  operation  beautiful  ?" 

126 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

"Anything  is  beautifiil  that  straightens  a  cripple  or 
makes  a  sick  body  well." 

"Oh,  I  see!" 

"Well,   good-by  till  to-morrow  morning." 

"And  you've  really  forgiven  me?" 

"Oh  yes,  indeed." 

"Good-by." 

She  felt  that  he  was  wonderful  to  think  of  such  things, 
to  be  at  work  at  the  trade  of  righting  with  science  the 
wrongs  of  fortune.  She  sat  back  and  smiled  at  the 
telephone.     It  was  a  good  gargoyle  now. 

How  different  Dr.  Worthing  was  from  Mr.  Merithew! 
Perry's  only  industry,  so  far  as  she  could  find  out,  was  the 
squandering  of  money  on  himself.  Still,  he  had  been 
capable  of  such  a  height  of  sacrifice  as  to  double  his  debt 
so  that  he  could  give  half  of  it  away.  That  was  dividing 
his  cloak  with  a  beggar  in  saintly  style.  And  yet  there 
was  something  not  quite  wholesome  about  him,  something 
not  quite  convincing  about  his  generosity  and  deference. 

Young  Dr.  Worthing  was  utterly  unlike  him.  He  was 
youthful,  earnest,  bossy,  and — aseptic.  He  was  worth  a 
dozen  Merithews. 

And  yet  sometimes  the  wholesome  is  less  engaging  than 
the  morbid,  the  safe  than  the  dangerous.  To  a  normal 
woman  a  serpenjt  is  an  object  of  horror  mitigated  by 
fascination;   the  deadlier  it  is  the  more  fascinating  it  is. 

Having  resolved  to  dare  all  and  go  to  the  club,  Muriel's 
next  problem  was  how  to  get  there.  If  she  asked  for  one 
of  the  cars  her  father  and  mother  would  know  of  it,  and 
she  could  not  stop  to  argue  the  matter  out  with  them. 
They  would  forbid  the  excursion,  and  she  would  have  to 
make  it  anyway.  It  would  be  kinder  to  leave  them  in 
peace  of  ignorance.  Children  are  often  considerate  of 
their  parents  in  this  way;  preferring  a  benevolent  decep- 
tion to  an  open  disobedience  that  may  be  humiliating 
to  the  parents.  Muriel  did  not  fancy  going  alone  in  the 
dark  or  arriving  alone  in  the  light.     She  did  not  fancy 

127 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

taking  her  maid  for  companion  or  even  the  old  house- 
keeper. She  could  telephone  a  girl  friend,  but  she  did 
not  want  a  confidante. 

She  sat  in  the  telephone-closet  meditating  and  suffocat- 
ing till  she  had  to  go  out  for  air.  She  met  her  mother  in 
the  hall  and  her  mother  said: 

"Oh,  Muriel,  I  forgot  to  teU  you  that  Winnie  NicoUs 
was  here  to  see  you  half  a  dozen  times  to-day.  He's  got 
a  new  car  and  he  wanted  you  to  christen  it.  He  wants 
to  name  it  Muriel." 

A  whimsical  fashion  of  naming  motors  had  begun  a 
brief  life. 

At  the  mention  of  Nicolls's  name  Muriel  shook  her 
head  wearily. 

Her  mother  cautioned  her:  "Be  nice  to  him,  my  dear. 
He  adores  you.  Better  call  him  up  and  ask  him  to  run 
over  in  the  morning." 

"All  right,  Mtimsey  dear,"  Muriel  answered,  with  an 
angelic  brightness  which  her  mother  credited  to  a  re- 
freshing obedience.  It  was  due  instead  to  the  sudden 
realization  that  she  could  use  Winnie  and  the  new  car  for 
transportation  to  the  tryst  with  Perry  Merithew. 

The  nicknames  of  the  great  are  rarely  to  their  advan- 
tage. Many  of  the  loftiest  and  bravest  have  been  called 
by  diminutives  that  would  not  have  honored  a  pet  lamb 
or  a  kitten. 

Winthrop  Nicolls  was,  or  soon  would  be,  so  jich  and 
with  so  solid  and  wide  a  wealth  that  he  would  make  even 
such  brilliant  capitalists  as  Jacob  Schuyler  look  shoddy. 
Yet  his  majestic  first  name  was  doomed  to  be  belittled 
to  "Winnie"  and  its  wearer  had  somehow  seemed  doomed 
to  fit  it.  Not  that  he  was  effeminate.  He  was  simply  a 
frail,  scared,  humble  sapling  that  chanced  to  grow  on  a 
mountain  of  gold.  Beneath  stood  one  of  the  most  power- 
ful families  in  American  history.  He  descended  from 
that  Q)lonel  Richard  Nicolls  whom  the  Duke  of  York 

128 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

sent  over  to  seize  New  Amsterdam  from  old  wooden- 
legged  Peter  Stuyvesant.  After  his  death  the  Dutch 
took  it  back  again  and  named  it  New  Orange  for  a  while, 
but  it  became  New  York  at  length  for  keeps.  Another 
Nicolls  was  attorney-general  at  the  time  of  Leisler's  re- 
bellion as  far  back  as  1689.  The  Nicollses  had  been  more 
or  less  recognized  governors  of  New  York  ever  since. 

And  now  the  family  destinies  were  about  to  be  clamped 
on  the  sloping  shoulders  of  Winnie  Nicolls,  whose  father 
was  not  expected  to  outlive  his  vanishing  kidneys.  Mean- 
while Winnie  was  the  Prince  of  Wales,  the  dauphin,  the 
heir  apparent.  Other  princelings  had  at  his  age  piled  up 
as  big  a  debt  as  Julius  Cassar's  and  as  bad  a  record.  But 
Winnie  was  harmless  and  timid. 

It  was  difficult  to  look  at  his  yeUow-white  hair,  like 
unripe  com,  his  pale  e^^es  of  indigo  water,  his  skim-milk 
skin,  and  his  nursery  smile,  and  think  of  him  as  the  lord 
of  a  hundred  million  dollars.  It  was  hard  for  Winnie 
to  think  of  himself  so. 

He  faced  his  past  and  his  futiire  with  the  paralyzed  ter-. 
ror  of  an  infant  that  has  toddled  into  the  thick  of  Broad- 
way and  stands  cr}'ing  in  all  directions  while  traffic  is 
hauled  up  short  until  a  policeman  or  a  bystander  can  run 
out  and  take  him  by  the  hand.  Only  nobody  could  lead 
Winnie  out  of  his  wealth. 

He  wanted  Muriel  to  take  him  by  the  hand  and  save 
him  from  its  menace.  He  loved  her,  had  loved  her  from 
the  time  when  as  a  fellow-infant  at  Newport  or  Biarritz 
she  used  to  take  his  pail  of  sand  away  and  spank  him  with 
his  own  little  shovel.  She  was  then  a  trussed-up,  spindle- 
legged  little  snipe  that  had  not  learned  mercy. 

As  her  head  grew  up  and  her  skirts  grew  down  she  con- 
tinued to  bully  him  more  and  more  delicately.  Some- 
times when  he  broke  a  roller-skate  in  Central  Park  she 
would  lend  him  one  of  hers  and  they  would  scud  with 
clasped  arms  along  the  steep  walks  among  the  scudding 
pauper  brats  in  the  fine  democracy  of  childhood  while 

129 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

their  nurses  stormed  in  vain.  Winnie  was  always  afraid, 
and  Muriel  dragged  him  all  the  faster  till  he  howled  for 
mercy. 

With  the  ruthlessness  of  the  helpless,  who  cannot  help 
themselves  to  anything  except  some  victim's  time  and 
strength,  Winnie  settled  himself  as  a  pensioner  on  Muriel's 
heart.  Eventually  Muriel  grew  tired  of  supporting  him. 
For  years  now  she  had  been  nmning  away  from  him. 

To-night,  for  once,  she  suddenly  found  his  company 
desirable;  he  could  pay  an  instalment  on  his  debt  by 
being  useful.  She  went  back  to  the  closet,  called  up  his 
home,  got  him  to  the  telephone,  and  sang  out: 

"Hello,  Win,  it's  me— Muriel." 

"Oh,  hel-low-oo!"  he  chortled  with  a  baby's  gurgle. 
"Say,  Mury,  I  got  a  new  car — ninety  horse-power." 

"So  I  hear.     Bring  it  over  and  let's  try  it  out." 

He  coughed  in  her  ear,  and  mtimbled:  "I'm  afraid  it's 
a  little  late.     I  was  just  getting  ready  for  dodo." 

Muriel  gnashed  her  teeth  at  his  puerility:  "Ask  your 
nurse  to  let  you  sit  up  a  little  while,  and  come  on 
over." 

This  shamed  him.  "Oh,  aw  ri',"  he  said,  " I'U  be  there 
in  a  jiffy.     I'll  serenade  you  with  the  honker." 

"Don't  come  in;  just  stop  outside.  I'll  run  down  and 
meet  you.     I'm  all  ready." 

"Awri'!" 

She  had  taken  off  her  street  suit  when  she  reached  home 
and  thrown  on  a  light  evening  gown  for  dinner.  It  would 
serve  to  dance  in  now. 

Muriel  could  have  marched  out  at  the  door  with  every- 
body's approval  to  meet  Winthrop  NicoUs,  but  she  had 
committed  herself  to  an  escapade,  and  she  wanted  to 
complete  it. 

She  took  up  a  novel,  kissed  her  father  and  mother, 
yawned  ostentatiously,  and  left  them  in  the  living-room 
playing  a  game  of  b^zique  that  had  lasted  for  thirty 
years  and  was  going  yet. 

130 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

When  Muriel  had  left,  Mrs.  Schuyler  whispered  to  her 
husband: 

"She's  going  out  with  Win  Nicolls  in  his  new  car  to- 
morrow." 

Jacob  smiled  craftily.  If  they  had  known  that  she 
was  stealing  into  the  moonlight  to  meet  him  it  would 
have  done  them  a  power  of  good.  The  old  love  to  see 
their  young  adding  their  own  romance  to  the  wisdom  of 
parental  selection. 

Muriel  went  up  the  front  stairway  with  dignity,  stole 
down  the  back  stairway  without  meeting  a  servant,  and 
hastened  out  on  the  service-porch.  She  ran  along  the 
muffling  grass  through  the  mysterious  formal  gardens 
with  their  plumy  fountains,  out  past  the  lodge-keeper's 
vine-smothered  home,  to  the  road.  No  one  saw  her. 
She  hid  behind  a  shrub  while  automobile  flashed  by  after 
automobile  in  a  nebulous  swirl  till  at  length  a  motor  came 
sputtering  up  behind  a  search-light  of  an  almost  biting 
glare. 

It  was  Winthrop  Nicolls,  bareheaded  and  eager.  He 
stepped  out  and  helped  her  in,  and  began  to  back  round 
for  a  return  along  the  road  he  had  come  by.  But  Aluriel 
said: 

"What  do  you  say  to  dropping  in  at  the  Yacht  Club 
for  a  while?" 

"No,  thanks.  I  want  to  show  you  the  speed  of  the 
new  car — Muriel  her  name  is,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"I  don't  mind,  but  I'd  really  like  to  stop  at  the  club 
for  a  few  minutes.     Just  for  a  dance  or  two." 

"Ah  no!  Let's  spin.  I  want  to  spin."  He  whimpered 
like  the  baby  everybody  kept  him.  But  Muriel  was 
obstinate.     He  had  to  yield. 

The  very  car  seemed  to  sulk  along.  Muriel  was  in  a 
tangle  of  remorses  at  her  multiplex  deceptions.  She  felt 
a  reproach  in  the  innocence  of  the  very  moonlit  bay  where 
the  yachts  were  nodding  at  anchor  like  a  great  flock  of 
wild  geese  asleep. 

131 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

There  was  a  drowsy  animation  about  the  club-house 
veranda.  In  all  the  deeper  shadows  couples  were 
ensconced.  At  dimly  lighted  tables  groups  of  people 
seemed  to  have  fallen  asleep  over  their  mint  juleps  and 
rickeys.  But  inside  the  house  a  small  band  was  whack- 
ing and  tootling,  and  dancers  were  earnestly  at  work. 

At  that  time  the  fever  of  the  dancing-sickness  was  at 
its  very  crest.  The  people  at  this  club  were  inviting  pneu- 
monia (which  never  accepts  invitations)  by  tangoing 
themselves  to  a  glow  and  then  pliuiging  into  the  cold 
outer  air  to  shoot  icy  drinks  into  their  horrified  insides. 
The  shock  seemed  not  to  shatter  but  to  temper  their  fine 
steel. 

Muriel  looked  for  Mr.  Merithew.  She  saw  him  on  the 
floor,  gyrating  in  a  hesitation  waltz  about  the  stately 
form  of  Mrs.  Tom  Johns  Bettany.  Everybody  called  her 
by  all  three  names  or,  for  short,  Mrs.  T.  J.  B. 

Muriel  did  not  approve  of  Mrs.  Tom  Johns  Bettany, 
and  she  regretted  to  see  Perry  Merithew  in  such  com- 
pany.    It  would  be  a  duty  to  get  him  out  of  her  clutches. 

Mrs.  T.  J.  B.  was  old  enough  to  have  a  daughter  who 
looked  to  be  nearly  as  old  as  her  mother ;  for  Mrs.  T.  J.  B .  's 
white  hair  had  the  effect  of  a  powdered  wig.  In  fact  she 
had  not  honestly  earned  white  hair.  Her  swift  high  life 
had  brought  a  few  patches  of  gray  into  her  tresses  long 
before  their  time.  She  had  thereupon  bleached  the  whole 
mass  and  given  out  that  it  turned  white  in  a  single  night 
from  grief  over  T.  J.  B.,  who  had  run  his  motor  off  a 
bridge  into  a  river  and  had  died  a  double  death  as  he  had 
lived  a  double  life. 

Nobody  believed  his  widow  in  this  or  any  other  story; 
but  the  white  hair  was  undeniably  becoming  to  her.  It 
gave  her  the  air  of  a  shepherdess  at  a  bal  poiidre.  Her 
manners  and  morals  were  appropriately  Watteau. 

She  had  several  sons  whom  she  loved  devotedly  at  con- 
venient hours,  and  disgraced  discreetly.     She  had  a  gift  of 

132 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

love  and  deceit  for  nearly  everybody — except  other 
women.  Them  she  neither  loved  nor  deceived — not 
even  her  daughter  Nadine,  who  despised,  adored,  and 
imitated  her  mother. 

The  daughter,  generally  known  as  "  Pet,"  had  no  reputa- 
tion left  by  the  time  she  was  sixteen.  The  general  verdict 
concerning  Pet  was  "she's  as  bad  as  they  make  'em," 
but  also  that  she  was  "an  amusin'  little  cuss."  Every- 
body was  afraid  of  her,  afraid  to  cut  her  lest  she  cut  back, 
afraid  to  omit  her  from  invitation-lists  lest  she  start  a 
war  of  reprisal.  Besides,  the  Bettanys  were  related  to 
nearly  everybody,  and  to  brand  them  was  to  be  involved 
in  the  scorchy  smell. 

Recently  Pet  had  shown  an  alarming  interest  in  Winnie 
Nicolls.  Muriel  felt  that  Pet  would  get  him  if  somebody 
didn't  watch  out.  Winnie  felt  it,  too,  and  climg  to 
^luriel.  Muriel  was  afraid  that  she  would  have  to  marry 
Winnie  to  save  him  from  Pet. 

But  first  she  must  save  poor  Mr.  Merithew  from  Pet's 
mother.  After  trying  to  catch  his  eye,  she  dragged 
Winnie  out  on  the  floor  and  set  him  to  the  hesitation 
waltz,  whose  rhythm  he  had  not  yet  learned.  Muriel,  as 
usual,  had  to  do  the  leading.  She  steered  Winnie  in  Mr. 
Merithew's  wake  till  she  overtook  him  and  spoke  him: 

"Good  eve-ning,  Mr.  Meri-thew!" 

Perry  did  not  know  her  voice  well  enough  to  recognize 
it.  He  wheeled  IMrs.  Tom  Johns  Bettany  aroimd  till  he 
could  see  who  had  named  him.  He  almost  fell  out  of  her 
arms  as  he  recognized  Muriel.     He  called  out : 

"The  next  is  mine!" 

"All  right,  if  it's  a  maxixe." 

"It  wHl  be." 

"All  right." 

Then  Winnie  spun  her  away,  leaving  Perry  to  pacify 
Mrs.  T.  J.  B. 

"I  thought  you  had  the  next  with  Pet,"  said  Mrs. 
T.  J.  B. 

133 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"The  next  after  the  next,"  lied  Perry. 

She  knew  he  lied,  but  she  did  not  care  to  fight  her 
daughter's  battles.  She  contented  herself  with  de- 
manding : 

"How  did  you  come  to  know  the  Schuyler  girl?" 

"Her  father  introduced  me,"  said  Perry. 

"Liar!"  sniffed  Mrs.  T.  J.  B. 

At  the  same  time  Winnie  was  saying  to  Muriel: 

"  I  won't  let  you  dance  with  that  fella." 

"Why  not?" 

"He's  a  bounder!" 

"As  a  dancer?" 

"As  a  man!" 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  so  before?" 

"  I  didn't  know  you  knew  him." 

"I  didn't  till  to-day." 

This  was  terrifying. 

"Wh-where  did  you  meet  him?" 

"At  my  father's  office." 

"Fibber!"  said  Winnie. 

Muriel  only  laughed  at  his  peevishness.     She  explained: 

"I'm  dancing  with  him  strictly  on  business." 

"Dancing  on  business!" 

"Uh-huh." 

Winnie  was  not  used  to  understanding  people  or  he 
would  not  have  been  content  to  leave  this  new  riddle 
unsolved. 

When  the  music  died  out  Perry  Merithew  delivered 
Mrs.  T.  J.  B.  at  a  crowded  table,  ordered  her  a  long,  cool 
drink,  and  set  forth  across  the  floor.  Pet  leaned  forward 
expectantly.  When  he  passed  her  by,  she  gasped.  She 
saw  him  go  up  to  Muriel  Schuyler,  of  all  people.  Saw 
her  rise  with  a  smile ! 

Pet  had  not  thought  it  of  M\iriel.  She  disapproved 
severely.     She  was  shocked. 

There  is  nobody  whom  the  indiscretion  of  good  people 
shocks  so  much  as  it  shocks  bad  people.     Pet  left  her 

134 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

place  and  sat  down  by  her  mother.     They  exchanged 
glances  of  anger  and  suspicion. 

In  August,  19 13,  the  maxixe  was  just  beginning  its 
sway  as  the  supplanter  of  the  tango.  It  was  still  chiefly 
left  to  the  professionals  who  performed  elaborate  duets 
about  the  floors  in  alternation  with  the  general  dances. 
But  a  few  progressives  had  taken  lessons,  and  Muriel 
was  one  of  these.  Perry  Merithew  another.  He  had  not 
studied  anything  in  his  life  as  he  studied  the  new  dances. 
He  was  proud  of  his  maxixe. 

Muriel  was  afraid  of  Mr.  Merithew.  He  was  even 
more  afraid  of  her;  he  was  as  afraid  of  her  innocence  as 
the  devH  is  of  holy  water.  He  had  resolved  not  to  flirt 
with  Muriel,  even  if  she  made  the  first  advances,  as  most 
of  the  women  and  young  girls  did.  Whatever  ulterior 
interest  he  took  in  her,  he  had  gauged  her  as  a  girl  of 
jquick  temper  and  innate  honesty.  She  might  take 
permanent  umbrage  at  a  premature  liberty. 

He  did  not  know  that  Mrs.  T.  J.  B.  and  Pet  and  young 
Nicolls  were  watching  that  dance  with  vital  interest. 
The  two  women  were  puzzled  by  Perry's  icy  aloofness 
as  he  danced.  He  kept  as  far  from  Muriel  as  he  covild 
without  letting  her  go  entirely.  This  was  suspicious 
in  him. 

He  and  Muriel  took  their  positions  side  by  side,  with 
his  right  arm  back  of  her,  and  as  the  languorous  contralto 
melody  of  the  Brazilian  courtship  dance  began  to  himi 
they  set  forth  on  the  voyage,  four  steps  on  the  left  heel, 
four  on  the  right,  and  so  through  the  various  figures, 
les  a  cote,  la  carta  jaca,  the  back  two-step,  the  skating, 
and  all  the  turns  and  dips. 

Merithew  kept  the  maximum  distance  from  Muriel, 
held  her  hand  daintily  as  with  pincers,  and  accomplished 
the  ritual  with  the  lofty  solemnity  of  a  sacred  dance. 
During  that  part  of  the  maxixe  where  he  must  raise  his 
elbows  above  her  shoulders  and  clasp  all  four  hands 

13s 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

under  her  chin,  Muriel  glanced  up  coquettishly  at  him, 
new  on  this  side,  now  on  that,  according  to  the  formula. 

Though  the  pantomime  was  purely  mechanical,  she  was 
studying  his  eyes.  She  found  a  polite  cordiality  in  the 
lenses.  That  was  all.  But  back  of  them  she  thought 
another  emotion  lurked.  It  was  that  which  one  suspects 
behind  the  soft  irises  of  a  purring  leopard,  but  she  could 
not  quite  be  sure.  It  needed  all  of  Merithew's  control 
to  keep  the  fur  over  his  claws.  He  could  hardly  prevent 
his  relaxed  arms  from  tightening  about  that  fresh,  rich 
body.  His  heart  beat  madly  under  his  boutonniere.  But 
he  controlled  his  muscles  and  his  expression  and  paid 
her  the  homage  of  indifference.  He  even  spared  her  any 
compliment  except  one: 

"Yoii  dance  wonderfiilly." 

"So  do  you,"  she  said. 

And  then  the  music  stopped.  And  with  it  Muriel's 
heart  sank. 

"My  money!"  she  gasped.  "You  promised  it,  and 
now — " 

He  bowed  and  commenced  to  applaud.  It  had  become 
the  regular  habit  for  the  dancers  to  applaud  and  beg  for  a 
few  added  measures.  It  was  a  kind  of  tribute  to  the 
women  they  had  danced  with.     It  implied  insatiability. 

The  maxixe  tune  began  anew  and  Perry  put  out  his 
arms,  Muriel  stepped  into  them  in  skater  poise,  and  they 
began  heeling  forward.  Perry  Merithew  was  a  trifle  less 
remote.     He  pleaded: 

"I  wish  you'd  give  me  just  one  more  dance,  Miss 
Schuyler." 

"  Impossible,  Mr.  Merithew.  My  mother  doesn't  know 
I'm  out." 

He  relished  this  confession  of  duplicity.  It  gave  him 
hope  for  the  future,  but  he  pretended  to  sigh. 

"Then  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  pay  you  what  I  promised." 

"Terms  strictly  C.  O.  D.,"  she  said. 

"Yotir  company  comes  high,  but  I  must  have  it,"  he 

136 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

sighed.  As  he  shuttled  to  and  fro  back  of  her  he  released 
one  of  his  hands,  slipped  it  into  the  pocket  inside  his 
waistcoat,  drew  forth  and  palmed  a  little  roll  of  five 
one-thousand-dollar  bills,  with  a  rubber  band  about  them. 

In  the  figure  where  the  man  holds  the  woman's  hands 
aloft  and  she  pivots  in  a  slow  circle,  as  if  suspended  from 
his  fingers  puppet-wise,  Merithew  transferred  the  tiny- 
parcel  to  her  hand.  Her  fingers  closed  on  it  just  as  the 
last  strain  of  music  ended. 

She  thrust  the  costly  wafer  into  the  bosom  of  her  gown, 
the  only  pocket  she  had.  She  could  not  restrain  a 
triumphant  little  toss  of  the  head.  She  was  very  beauti- 
ful, Merithew's  soul  declared. 

Neither  of  them  realized  that  they  had  been  closely 
watched.  Winnie  NicoUs's  idolatrous  eyes,"  suspecting 
nothing,  saw  nothing.  Mrs.  Tom  Johns  Bettany  and  her 
daughter  Pet,  suspecting  everything,  saw  more  than 
everything. 

Mrs.  T.  J.  B.  whispered  to  her  daughter,  "Did  you  see 
that?" 

Pet  nodded  sullenly:  " He  gave  her  something.  What 
do  you  suppose  it  was?     It  looked  like  cigarettes." 

"It  looked  like  money!"  said  Mrs.  Bettany,  grimly. 


CHAPTER  XV 

WITH  five  thousand  dollars  in  her  breast  pocket 
Muriel  felt  highly  important.  She  was  afraid  of 
herself  at  last.  She  bade  Perry  Merithew  a  careless  good- 
night for  the  public  and  for  himself: 

"A  million  thanks!    You  are  a  very  good  man." 

This  almost  floored  him.  He  had  just  presence  of  mind 
enough  to  say: 

"If  I'm  such  a  good  man,  when  do  you  see  me  again?" 

She  stared  at  him  in  surprise. 

He  explained,  hastily,  "To  tell  me  about  oiu-  Italian 
child,  you  know." 

"Oh,  of  coiu*se.     I'll  telephone  you  to-morrow." 

"Better  let  me  call." 

She  stared  at  him  with  misgivings. 

He  ventured  another  tack:  "Come  over  here  and 
dance  with  me  again." 

"I  don't  think  I'd  better." 

"Where's  the  harm?"  he  urged.  "Haven't  I  a  right 
to  a  Httle  interest  on  my  money,  and  a  right  to  know  what 
happens  to  it?" 

"All  right,  I'll  be  here."  She  laughed,  but  imeasily. 
She  did  not  like  the  complication,  but  she  could  see  no 
way  out  of  it  without  insulting  her  benefactor  or  returning 
him  the  money.  That  she  must  not  do.  She  repeated 
her  "Good  night,"  but  she  did  not  feel  that  he  was  quite 
such  a  good  man,  after  all. 

She  tirnied  and,  picking  up  Winnie  Nicolls  with  a  long, 
prehensile   glance,   made   her   way   out,    dawdling   and 

138 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

nodding  here  and  there.  She  had  braked  down  her  feet, 
but  her  heart  was  going  at  full  speed. 

When  Winnie  hoisted  her  into  the  car  she  breathed  a 
deep  breath  and  felt  important  enough  to  reach  up  and 
pluck  a  pair  of  stars  for  her  ear-rings.  She  breathed  deep 
of  the  luxury  of  being  important  to  somebody  in  distress. 

She  felt  that  she  ought  to  speed  at  once  to  New  York 
to  those  poor  Italians  for  whom  she  had  braved  so  much. 
She  had  always  wanted  to  save  somebody's  life  in  the 
surf  or  in  a  burning  building  or  somewhere.  Now  she 
was  about  to  accomplish  her  prayer.  She  must  let 
nothing  make  her  late,  let  nothing  prevent  her  arrival 
in  Batavia  Street.  She  wanted  to  tell  Winnie  about  it, 
but  she  was  afraid  he  would  read  her  a  lecture  like  her 
mother's.  He  woidd  warn  her  to  save  the  money.  He 
was  notoriously  stingy. 

Like  many  of  the  rich,  he  was  capable  of  astounding 
generosities  and  incredible  parsimonies.  In  later  years 
he  would  give  the  new  cathedral  a  hundred-thousand- 
dollar  check  and  haggle  with  a  golf  caddie  over  a  rebate 
for  a  lost  ball  on  the  same  afternoon. 

Muriel  decided  not  to  tell  Winnie.  She  realized  that 
the  car  was  now  going  at  a  dazzling  speed.  Winnie  was 
afraid  of  people,  but  not  of  engines.  The  racing  car 
was  hung  so  low  that  they  seemed  to  be  riding  on  their 
spines,  dragged  forward  by  their  heels.  Winnie  was 
watching  the  road  with  one  eye  and  the  speedometer 
with  the  other. 

He  was  chortling  like  a  baby.  He  was  smashing  the 
law  to  flinders,  but  what  was  a  small  fine  to  him?  He 
was  risking  his  life  every  moment;  but  his  own  life  was 
rather  stupid,  anyway.  If  he  saw  anybody  else  in  danger 
— a  car,  or  a  buggy,  or  a  child — he  would  run  into  a  stone 
wall  and  take  what  came.  Better  any  risk  than  a  life  of 
low  speed. 

Muriel  imderstood  this  motor  psychology  and  felt  it 
herself  when  she  ran  her  own  car.     But  to-night,  after  a 

139 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

sickening  swerve  or  two,  as  death  or  murder  was  escaped 
by  a  tire's  breadth  and  a  tire's  grip,  it  came  over  her  that 
she  was  risking  more  than  her  own  life.  The  search- 
light peopled  the  road  ahead  with  imagined  horrors, 
balky  horses  backing  across  the  road,  children  wandering 
along  in  a  chain  of  hands,  a  flung  shoe,  a  snap  in  the 
steering-gear,  a  flaw  in  an  axle.  As  in  a  waking  nightmare 
she  passed  through  hideous  experiences. 

A  cold  fear  overspread  her.  What  if  she  were  killed 
or  crippled  ?  What  if  her  five  thousand  dollars  were  con- 
sumed in  a  blaze  of  gasolene?  Who  would  save  the 
Angelillo  boy? 

She  shivered  so  violently  that  Winnie  asked: 

"Got  a  chill?" 

"Yes.     T-take  me  home." 

"Why  in  the  Lord's  name  don't  you  women  ever  carry 
a  wrap?    The  car  was  just  warming  up." 

He  jammed  the  brakes  on,  backed  and  filled,  and  turned 
about  with  angry  snarls  of  the  clutch,  and  took  her  home. 
She  felt  kindlier  to  him  as  she  descended  outside  the 
lodge.  He  had  been  amiably  deceivable,  a  minute-man 
escort,  and  obedient,  if  surly.  So  she  promised  him  a 
real  try-out  on  the  Motor  Parkway  at  her  first  leisure 
mom3nt. 

Then  she  stole  back  to  the  house  and  entered  it  with  an 
ease  that  promised  well  for  the  first  burglar.  The  watch- 
dogs barked,  but  nobody  ever  heeded  them. 

Meanwhile,  Muriel  had  left  Perry  Merithew  alone  with 
the  memory  of  her  and  the  presence  of  the  Bettany  women. 

Merithew  was  too  much  of  a  connoisseur  not  to  have 
thrilled  at  the  charm  of  Muriel,  so  delectable,  so  nearly 
ready,  like  a  peach  that  the  sun  has  ripened  on  one  side. 
But  Merithew  was  also  too  expert  as  a  conquistador  of 
women  to  attempt  to  pluck  the  peach  too  soon.  He  had 
offered  Muriel  ho  hint  of  gallantry — in  fact,  he  found 
that  she  had  left  in  his  heart  a  most  unusual  emotion  for 

140 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

him,  a  kind  of  reverence,  and  what  is  more  reverend  than 
a  young  girl  of  whom  nature  is  just  making  a  woman  ? 

When  Muriel  was  gone  from  his  arms  and  from  his 
sight  he  felt  an  unbearable  loneliness.  He  wanted  to 
follow  her,  to  be  with  her  always;  he  wanted  to  possess 
her  in  all  holiness.     He  wished  he  could  marry  her. 

He  happened  to  have  a  wife,  but  it  should  not  be  hard  to 
be  rid  of  her.  She  would  have  divorced  him  long  ago  if  he 
had  but  threatened  a  fight.  He  had  kept  his  wife  not  for 
her  own  sake,  but  for  a  protection  against  other  women, 
those  tiresome  women  who  tried  to  turn  every  fleeting 
romance  into  a  sentence  for  life. 

But  Muriel  Schuyler — to  be  sentenced  to  life  with  her 
would  be  equivalent  to  an  exile  into  paradise.  He 
marveled  at  her  extraordinary  influence  over  him.  He 
had  just  paid  five  thousand  dollars  to  win  her  praise. 
He  called  himself  a  sublime  jackass.  Yet  he  felt  that  the 
investment  was  the  best  he  had  ever  made.  The  other 
five  thousand  he  had  borrowed  was  to  quiet  another 
woman  who  was  blackmailing  him.  That  hurt.  It 
always  hurt  Perry  to  pay  a  debt:  to  exchange  a  present 
treasure  for  a  forgotten  pleasure.  But  he  loved  to  toss 
money  away  for  a  bribe  or  a  tip  or  a  trinket  or  a  smile. 
He  had  paid  Muriel  Schuyler  a  large  stun  in  advance. 
What  was  he  going  to  get  back  for  it?  What  debt  did 
it  fasten  on  her  ? 

Suddenly  he  realized  that  it  put  her  under  no  obligation 
at  all.  She  was  just  the  transfer-agent  who  would  collect 
from  him  and  pay  it  to  some  Italian  scum. 

But  he  would  not  accept  this  version.  Yesterday  he 
had  not  known  Muriel  Schuyler.  To-day  she  was  his 
admirer,  his  partner  in  an  escapade.  She  had  danced 
with  him  and  praised  his  dancing  and  his  good  heart. 
This  was  progress.     What  might  not  the  future  bring? 

He  imagined  niimberless  results  of  this  charity  of  his, 
but  they  were  all  pleasant.  Who  could  have  dreamed 
that  the  train  of  events  his  generosity  set  in  motion  would 

141 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

end  in  the  crushing  wreck  that  ended  his  Hfe  in  disgrace 
and  horror,  with  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence? 

He  thought  to  escape  the  next  dance  by  keeping  out  of 
sight.  But  Pet  Bettany  cornered  him  on  the  veranda, 
went  into  his  pockets  for  his  cigarette-case,  and  took  his 
cigarette  from  his  Hps  to  Hght  her  own.  Then  she  seated 
herself  on  the  railing  in  a  graceful  awkwardness,  held 
him  en  brochette  with  a  long,  steely  stare,  and  said: 

"I  saj'-.  Perry  boy,  what's  the  little  doings  between  you 
and  Muriel  Schuyler?     Some  new  intrigue?" 

"What  intrigue  could  I  have  with  her?"  he  gasped. 

"It's  me  that's  asking  you.  Perry." 

"Don't  be  a  fool." 

"I'd  be  a  foolisher  fool  if  I  believed  you,  old  dear. 
What  did  you  put  in  her  hand?" 

"In  whose  hand?" 

"Oh,  I  saw  you!"  she  sneered.  "Come  along — what 
was  it?     It  looked  like  money." 

He  laughed  violently,  but  with  such  eiffort  that  she 
said: 

"Quit  it;  you' re  a  punk  actor." 

He  eyed  her  angrily.  "Are  you  insane  enough  to 
accuse  me  of  giving  Muriel  Schuyler  money?  Why,  her 
father  could  buy  and  sell  me  and  never  know  it." 

"Her  father,  yes;  but  he's  very  close  with  her.  Do 
you  deny  that  you  gave  her  money?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"Then  that  proves  it,"  she  laughed.  "I  find  that  if  I 
just  copper  everj^hing  you  say,  Perry  darling,  I  come  out 
ahead." 

He  was  scarlet  with  angry  confusion:  "Why  in  God's 
name  should  I  give  Muriel  Schuyler  money  secretly?" 

"That's  what  I'm  asking  you,  dove." 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  and  your  dirty 
tongue." 

"Thanks,  duck.    But  you've  lent  money  to  me.    You 

142 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

know  you'll  never  get  it  back.     I  thought  you  might  be 
lending  Muriel  a  little  on  the  same  terms." 

"You — oh,  you — you — "  He  could  not  speak  the 
words  he  thought  even  to  her,  to  whom  his  speech  was  so 
free.  He  left  her  without  ceremony  and  walked  away. 
The  insult  was  so  convincing  that  her  triumphant  laughter 
followed  him.  He  turned  and  walked  back,  his  eyes 
blazing:  "Even  you  ought  to  have  sense  enough  to  know 
that  Muriel  Schuyler  has  too  much  money  to  take  money 
from  me." 

"No  woman  can  ever  have  enough  money  or  clothes  or 
jewels,  sweetheart.  We're  all  grafters.  Muriel  is  just 
learning  the  game,  I  suppose." 

"Besides,  I'm  broke." 

"That's  when  you're  most  generous,  Perry.  Like 
everybody  else,  you  get  stingy  when  you're  in  funds.  If 
I'd  known  you  were  stony,  I'd  have  beaten  little  Muriel  to 
it.  My  dressmaker,  Dutilh,  is  awfully  nasty.  He  won't 
give  me  any  new  fall  clothes  till  I  pay  for  last  winter's. 
He'll  let  last  spring's  go  over,  but  he  says  he  has  to  raise 
some  cash  to  pay  the  customs  on  his  new  importations. 
You  cotddn't  slip  me  a  little  till  I  get  my  next  allowance, 
could  you?  Come  along;  they're  playing  a  one-step.  You 
can  pass  it  over  then.     Or  must  it  always  be  a  maxixe?" 

"I'm  bust,  I  tell  you."  • 

"I  was  thinking  that  if  you  could,  I  should  be  able  to 
keep  your  confidence  about  Muriel.  Fact  is,  I  might 
help  you  out.  You  could  meet  her  at  my  house.  She 
doesn't  like  us  a  damn  bit,  but  she  might  be  willing  to  use 
us.     What  about  it,  eh?" 

Perry  was  choking  with  rage.  He  was  tempted  to  tell 
Pet  that  he  had  given  Muriel  the  money  to  ransom  an 
Italian  ragazzo  with.  But  even  his  tardy  imagination 
could  foresee  how  such  a  fairy  story  would  be  received. 

Pet  was  one  of  those  shrill-voiced,  loud-laughing  crea- 
tures that  occur  in  all  circles,  in  royal  courts  no  less  than 
in  farmsteads.     No  breeding  seems  ever  to  soften  them. 

143 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

If  he  told  Pet  the  truth  her  whoop  would  rouse  all  the 
dead  in  the  club-house.  He  could  think  of  no  plausible 
lie.  All  he  could  think  of  was  an  impatient,  idiomatic 
protest.  He  spoke  it  in  the  free  language  that  obtains 
among  intimate  acquaintances  who  know  better  but  do 
worse.     He  said: 

"Look  here,  Pet,  you  mind  your  own  business  and  keep 
your  big  mouth  shut  about  a  girl  that's  too  decent  for 
you  to  understand  or  you'll  wish  you'd  never  been  bom." 

Pet  stared  at  him  with  a  hateful  shrewdness  and  took 
the  threat  with  a  shrug  of  amusement: 

"It's  like  that,  eh?    Just  like  that?" 

Then  her  laughter  came,  a  big,  peasant  cackle  that 
made  everybody  in  the  club  uneasy,  made  everybody 
groan,  "I  wish  she  wouldn't!" 

Even  Mrs.  T.  J.  B.  rushed  up  and  said  for  the  milHonth 
time  since  Pet  was  bom: 

"In  Heaven's  name,  less  noise!"  Then  she  asked,  eag- 
erly:   "Has  Perry  been  telling  you  a  funny  story?" 

"Yes,"  Pet  shouted,  "one  of  his  very  funniest." 

She  howled  again,  and  Perry  would  have  fled,  but  Pet 
caught  him  by  the  arm  with  her  big  and  painful  hand, 
and  held  him  while  she  dismissed  her  mother,  curtly: 
"You  go  on  about  your  business,  mamma." 

When  Mrs.  T.  J.  B,  had  doddered  away,  shaking  her 
head  over  the  plebeian  changeling  she  had  had  to  rear, 
Pet  said:  "Look  here.  Perry,  you'd  better  be  nice  to  me, 
for  I  can  be  no  end  nasty  to  you,  and  I've  been  looking 
for  something  on  your  little  Muriel.  Winnie  Nicolls  likes 
her  too  well  to  suit  me,  and  this  is  just  what  I  need. 
But  I  need  the  clothes  worse.  Think  it  over,  old  thing! 
You  may  go  now." 

That  night  Perry  said  his  prayers  backward;  at  least 
he  vowed  that  he  would  never  again  attempt  a  humane 
deed  with  a  worthy  motive.  It  resulted  in  far  too  much 
wickedness. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  next  morning  Muriel's  problem  was  how  to  get 
to  town.  She  finally  accepted  her  father's  invita- 
tion to  visit  his  new  library.  He  was  an  early  riser,  and 
they  went  down  the  East  River  in  the  cool  of  the  morning. 
The  new  accessions  to  the  library  were  wonderful  treas- 
ures to  be  gloated  over  with  a  miser's  clutch,  and  at  any 
other  time  she  would  have  reveled  in  the  unique  copies, 
the  famous  bindings,  the  time-browned  pages  that  genera- 
tions had  thtmibed  and  men  centuries  dead  had  annotated, 
or  the  old  maids  of  books  whose  curious  value  was  that 
their  leaves  had  never  been  cut. 

But  Muriel  was  thinking  only  of  her  appointment  with 
Dr.  Worthing,  trjnng  to  imagine  a  convincing  excuse  to 
escape. 

The  librarian  almost  wept  over  a  Caxton  of  which  there 
were  only  two  in  the  world;  and  this  one  had  a  title-page 
which  the  other  one  lacked.  Jacob  could  hardly  wait  to 
get  it  out  of  his  hands  and  brag  about  it  to  Muriel. 

But  Muriel  was  thinking  of  the  living.  She  could  not 
get  her  mind  on  the  toys  her  father  was  pulling  out  of  his 
Christmas  stocking.  She  stared  at  a  prayer-book  given 
by  an  old  king  to  his  daughter  with  a  dedication  asking 
her  to  ''  pray  for  your  louving  fader  that  gave  you  this  booke 
and  goddes  blessyng  therwith."  She  coiild  not  read  the 
old  script,  or  even  the  little  pasted-in  translation  of  it. 
Her  thoughts  were  in  Batavia  Street,  and  she  said: 

"Hadn't  I  better  call  up  Mr.  Chivot  and  see  what  he 
has  done  about  the  Italian  boy  and  that  poor  girl?" 

"Later,  later!   that  can  wait,"  said  Jacob.     "Would 

145 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

you  look  at  this  Morie  d' Arthur!  Old  Nicolls  paid  a  mill- 
ion dollars  for  his  last  accessions,  but  he  hasn't  got  a 
duplicate  of  this." 

Muriel  thought  that  King  Arthur  could  wait  better 
than  the  Angelilli  or  the  Balinskys.  There  was  a  tele- 
phone extension  in  the  library  and  she  got  Mr.  Chivot  on 
the  wire.  He  said  that  he  had  met  unexpected  obstacles. 
That  was  what  she  expected  him  to  meet.  The  Angelillo 
family,  he  said,  when  he  called  with  a  detective,  had 
received  him  rudely  and  ordered  him  and  the  poHce  to  get 
out  of  their  sight  and  to  keep  out  of  it.  He  had  also 
called  upon  an  important  member  of  the  Immigration 
Board  at  his  club  the  night  before,  but  the  gentleman 
had  said  that  these  things  were  regulated  by  laws,  and 
that  while  the  laws  occasionally  inflicted  hardships,  it 
was  for  the  general  good  that  they  shoidd  be  obeyed, 
and  that  it  was  a  great  mistake  to  make  exceptions  at  the 
request  of  important  people;  especially  at  their  request, 
indeed,  since  it  confirmed  the  general  opinion  that  people 
with  a  pull  could  do  what  they  wanted  with  the  laws. 

The  end  of  the  story  of  failvire  was  Mr.  Chivot's  state- 
ment that  he  would  keep  both  matters  in  mind,  but  that, 
if  he  might  presume  to  advise,  it  would  be  far  better  for 
Miss  Muriel  to  take  her  father's  advice  and  drop  out  of  it. 

Muriel  could  have  screamed  at  the  deferential,  contemp- 
tuous tone  he  took.     She  choked  as  she  said : 

"Thank  you  ever  so  much,  Mr.  Chivot.     Good-by!" 

She  had  to  be  polite  to  her  father's  secretary,  but  she 
could  talk  to  her  father  as  she  wished.  She  turned  on 
Jacob  with  ferocity  that  made  him  forget  the  Recuyell  oj 
the  Hystoryes  of  Troye  that  he  held  in  his  hand.  She 
quoted  Mr.  Chivot's  message  in  a  burlesque  of  his  wire- 
drawn tones,  and  she  cried: 

"That's  what  I  get  for  appealing  to  you  men!  You 
dragged  me  home  last  night  like  a  poodle  on  a  chain,  and 
yovir  Mr,  Chivot  lectures  me  like  a  tutor.  And  between 
you  a  little  boy  gets  cut  to  pieces  and  a  poor  family  gets 

146 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

torn  apart.  And  what  do  you  care?  I  ask  you  for  a 
puny  little  five  thousand  dollars  and  you  tell  me  I'm 
affected  by  the  heat.  But  you've  spent  nearly  a  million 
dollars  on  this  library.  Mr.  Merithew  had  the  goodness 
to  offer  to  borrow  the  money  and  give  it  to  me,  and  what 
did  you  say?  You  said,  '  It's  not  a  bankable  proposition.' 
Nothing  human  and  kind  and  considerate  and  warm- 
hearted and  pitiful  is  a  bankable  proposition.  Well,  you 
can  keep  your  bankable  propositions.  I'm  going  to  save 
those  people  if  I  have  to  break  into  the  White  House 
by  a  window  like  a  suffragette.  Besides,  I've  got  the 
five  thousand  dollars,  too,  and  no  thanks  to  you.  And  I 
know  somebody  who  will  help  me  save  those  poor  wretches, 
too!" 

Old  Jacob  had  heard  her  tirade  out  in  far  more  admi- 
ration than  indignation.  He  loved  her  energy  and  her 
determination  and  her  fervor ;  her  disrespect  was  a  minor 
matter.  But  when  she  announced  that  she  had  found  the 
money  he  was  startled,  and  wanted  to  know  where  and 
how. 

She  laughed  bitterly  and  would  not  tell  him.  When  a 
clock  tinkled  once  she  started  like  Cinderella  at  midnight. 
And  when  she  saw  that  it  was  already  half  past  ten  she 
fled  down  the  great  stairway  like  another  Cinderella  re- 
turning to  rags  and  ashes.  But  she  made  the  descent 
without  losing  a  slipper. 

Her  father  called  to  her  down  Jacob's  Ladder,  but  she 
did  not  stay  to  answer.  She  opened  the  big  door  herself 
while  the  old  footman  gasped,  "Why,  Miss  Muriel!" 
She  hurried  along  the  street,  and  when  no  taxi  was  to  be 
found  hopped  aboard  a  down-bound  'bus  and  so  reached 
Thirty-fourth  Street,  where  she  took  a  taxi  from  the 
Waldorf-Astoria  cab-stand  and  told  the  driver  to  fly  to 
Bellevue  Hospital. 

Her  appointment  with  Dr.  Worthing  was  for  ten 
o'clock.     At  eleven  o'clock  she  was  still  fuming  among 

147 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

the  various  entrances  of  the  linked  structures  that  are 
Bellevne. 

At  last  she  found  a  desk  where  a  young,  woman  sat 
back  of  a  legend,  "Information."  Muriel  asked  for  Dr. 
Worthing,  please;  and  for  her  name  she  gave  the  phrase, 
"He's  expecting  me." 

Muriel  was  led  into  a  small  room  and  invited  to  sit 
down.  In  a  moment  Dr.  Worthing  was  at  the  door. 
She  did  not  recognize  him  at  first,  for  he  was  not  in  his 
white  uniform.  He  was  in  a  blue  serge  suit,  wore  yellow 
shoes,  and  carried  a  straw  hat  in  his  hand.  He  greeted 
her  with  a  despairing  smile  that  was  rebuke  enough. 
She  rose  and  stood  before  him  like  a  school-girl  who  is 
tardy. 

"I'm  so  ashamed!"  she  said.  "But  you  can't  imagine 
how  hard  it  was  to  get  away.     I  had  to  run  for  it." 

"So  long  as  you're  here,"  said  Dr.  Worthing,  "that's 
enough.     Let  me  look  at  the  wounded  forehead." 

"Oh  no,  thanks;  it's  quite  all  right." 

"Sit  down,"  he  said. 

She  sat  down  with  a  gasp  of  delighted  disgust  at  her 
submissiveness.  When  his  hand  brushed  back  her  hair 
she  quivered  again  and  her  face  was  suddenly  all  rosy. 
Yet  where  his  fingers  went  they  left  white  streaks. 

It  startled  Dr.  Worthing  to  see  what  influence  he  had 
over  her.  He  was  of  the  sort  who  grow  meek  with  power. 
He  took  off  the  adhesive  strip  with  the  aid  of  benzine. 
It  hurt  her  a  little,  but  him  more. 

"It's  practically  healed  already!"  he  cried.  "What 
splendid  health  you  have !  You  must  have  a  good  father 
and  mother."  That  was  in  his  eyes  a  final  diploma. 
Every  day  he  saw  poor  souls  condemned  to  carry  inher- 
ited burdens  with  inherited  weaknesses  and  to  endure 
pain  and  blame  they  had  not  earned.  Perfect  health 
was  to  him  as  high  a  commendation  as  perfect  beauty 
was  to  Perry  Merithew. 

Muriel  exclaimed,  "That's  a  funny  thing  to  say!" 

148 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Is  it?"  he  said,  and,  instead  of  explaining,  asked, 
ironically,  "Aren't  they  good  people?" 

"Of  course  they  are;  though  my  father  can  be  terribly 
stubborn.  Yesterday  he  dragged  me  home  and  this 
morning  I  had  to  run  away." 

She  felt  a  surprising  necessity  for  telling  this  strange 
young  man  all  that  had  happened  after  she  left  him. 
And  she  felt  an  irresistible  impulse  to  demand  his  aid. 
She  showed  him  the  five  thousand  dollars  and,  against  her 
overridden  judgment,  told  him  that  she  had  danced  it 
out  of  Perry  Merithew. 

He  listened  with  fascination  to  her  story  and  his  eyes 
softened  as  she  revealed  her  pity  and  her  eagerness  to 
help.  But  when  the  name  of  Merithew  came  to  ear  the 
coda  spoiled  the  whole  symphony  for  him.  The  knowl- 
edge that  she  knew  the  notorious  rake  and  was  rash 
enough  to  dance  in  his  embrace  and  to  accept  money 
from  him  filled  Worthing  with  a  terror  for  her  in  which 
jealousy  was  a  potent  chemical.  He  could  not  believe 
that  Muriel  was  as  bad  as  rumor  made  all  the  rich.  Even 
if  she  were,  he  was  a  doctor,  not  a  minister,  and  it  was  not 
his  business  to  convert  her.  But  he  was  gravely  dis- 
quieted. 

She  asked  him  if  he  could  go  with  her  to  see  Happy 
Hanigan,  and  he  said  that  he  cotdd — ^he  "happened"  to  be 
off  duty.  He  did  not  explain  that  he  had  happened  it  by 
bull5dng  and  bribing  another  young  and  very  sleepy 
surgeon  to  stay  on  duty  a  couple  of  hours  longer. 

Muriel  had  kept  the  taxi  and  they  got  into  it.  As 
they  left  the  hospital  Muriel  caught  sight  of  the  clock. 

"We  must  go  first  to  the  poor  Italians  and  leave  this 
money.     Poor  Happy  Hanigan  can  wait  awhile." 

* ' He's  waited  several  years, ' '  said  Dr.  Worthing.  ' '  And 
he's  willing  to  wait  many  more.  But  those  Italians — 
don't  you  think  that  five  thousand  dollars  is  a  good  deal 
to  give  them?" 

"But  that's  what  the  Black  Hand  demands." 

149 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Never  pay  the  asking-price  for  anything.  Bargain 
with  'em." 

"But  they'll  hurt  the  boy." 

"Not  while  there's  money  in  sight.  If  you  give 
them  the  five  thousand  right  away  they'll  hold  back 
the  child  and  ask  a  thousand  more.  Or  they'll  steal 
him  again.  No,  the  kidnappers  mustn't  learn  of  the 
rich  woman  back  of  this  or  they'll  never  give  up. 
They'll  steal  you!  Start  with  five  hundred  and  keep 
them  anxious." 

Muriel  yielded  to  him,  though  her  father's  use  of  the 
same  arguments  had  horrified  her. 

The  Angelilli  had  given  Muriel  up  for  lost.  They 
greeted  her  now  with  cries  of  redemption.  They  recoiled 
from  the  doctor,  till  Muriel  assured  them  that  he  was  not 
a  detective,  and  he  proved  it  by  expert  advice  on  the 
harnessing,  feeding,  and  ventilating  of  the  two  infants 
who  were  uncle  and  nephew. 

It  struck  Muriel  as  droll  that  this  young  man  should  be 
teaching  a  grandmother  how  to  raise  babes,  but  he  knew 
more  than  they  did.  He  knew,  for  instance,  that  boiled 
cabbage  and  fried  pork  were  not  good  for  infants.  Settle- 
ment-house women  had  told  them  the  same  thing  and 
been  disliked  for  it.  But  a  handsome  young  doctor  was 
different. 

Dr.  Worthing  told  the  awe-smitten  women  that  he  was 
there  to  get  them  their  boy,  that  he  could  raise  eight  hun- 
dred dollars,  if  necessary,  but  they  had  better  start  at 
five  hundred. 

They  accepted  him  as  oracle,  and  Muriel  made  ready 
to  take  that  inflammable  money  from  her  pocketbook. 
Dr.  Worthing  gave  her  a  look  and  a  slight  shake  of  the 
head.  He  handed  Gemma  his  own  card  and  telephone 
number,  and  told  her  to  let  him  know  when  the  kid- 
nappers were  ready  to  exchange  the  boy  for  the 
money. 

His  cold  manner  quieted  the  hysteria  of  the  women 

ISO 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

where  Muriel's  warm  sympathy  had  aggravated  it,  and 
farewells  were  said  in  good  order. 

Out  in  the  tenement  hall  Dr.  Worthing  said: 

"I  must  apologize  for  taking  the  wheel  out  of  yotir 
hand,  but  I  don't  want  you  mixed  up  in  this.  It  might 
entangle  you  in  no  end  of  trouble." 

"You're  wonderfiilly  kind,"  said  Mtuiel,  "and  I'm 
awfully  grateful.     Will  you  take  the  money?" 

She  offered  him  the  five  thousand  dollars.  He  shook 
his  head. 

"I'd  probably  abscond." 

"Please  take  it." 

But  he  would  not.     She  posed  him  a  new  problem. 

"If  we  get  the  boy  at  a  bargain  do  we  give  back  the 
rest  to  Mr.  Merithew?" 

Worthing  had  hated  the  idea  of  her  taking  money 
from  such  a  man,  yet  he  could  not  quite  like  the 
idea  of  rettuning  any  of  it  to  him.  He  had  an 
idea: 

"Better  put  it  into  a  general  fund  for  the  relief  of  human 
misery.  Call  it  the  Merithew  endowment,  and  see  how 
far  it  will  go." 

"What  a  perfectly  corking  scheme!"  Muriel  cried. 
"We'll  just  do  it.     And  now  for  poor  little  Happy." 

They  climbed  the  stairs  and  knocked  at  the  Hanigan 
portal  a  long  while  before  they  brought  to  the  opposite 
door  a  Greek  lady  who  did  not  at  all  resemble  the  classic 
canons  in  any  of  her  proportions.  She  informed  them 
that  Mrs.  Hanigan  was  out  scrubbing;  Mr.  Hanigan  was 
with  the  horse,  and  the  poor  boy  had  gone  to  work  selling 
his  papers. 

"With  all  his  bruises!"  Muriel  sighed. 

"There's  no  rest  for  the  poor,"  said  Worthing. 

"And  now  for  the  poor  Balinsky  family,"  said  Miuiel. 
"What  if  we  should  be  too  late  and  they  should  have 
been  sent  away?  It  would  kill  them  all;  I'm  stue  of  it. 
Hurry,  hurry!" 

151 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

*'I'm  afraid  I  haven't  time  to  go  to  Ellis  Island.  I'm 
expected  back  at  the  hospital." 

"You  wouldn't  desert  me  now,  would  you?"  Muriel 
pleaded. 

After  one  look  into  her  eyes  Worthing  exclaimed,  "I'd 
rather  desert  my  job,"  and  they  clattered  down  the  stairs 
together. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

AT  the  new  Barge  Office,  for  all  its  Italian  palace 
i\  architecture,  the  crowd  was  made  up  chiefly  of 
yesterday's  American  citizens  gathered  to  welcome 
to-morrow's. 

Always  they  keep  coming  out  of  the  ocean  as  through 
the  walled  waters  of  the  Red  Sea,  these  fugitives  to 
Canaan  from  Pharaohs  of  the  old  Egypts  where  they  have 
wearied  of  making  bricks  without  straw.  We  cannot 
see  what  milk  and  honey  they  find  flowing  here,  yet  they 
send  back  tidings  that  bring  others  through.  So  they 
must  be  escaping  from  something  to  something. 

It  was  not  easy  for  Muriel  to  feel  sympathy  for  these 
uncouth,  half-baked  Americans.  The  snobbery  of  her 
class  and  the  snobbery  of  one  race  for  all  others  impelled 
her  to  dislike  their  faces,  their  clothes,  their  gestures,  their 
dialects.  Yet  the  poor  souls  were  here  for  the  best  of 
reasons,  and  emotions  of  love  and  filial  piety  and  marital 
devotion  and  comradeship  were  their  inspiration.  They 
had  made  heroic  sacrifices  and  were  revealing  heroic 
loyalties. 

A:  length  the  free  municipal  ferry  came  into  its  slip, 
loaded  like  a  barge  with  the  latest  dredge  from  the  ooze 
of  Europe,  and  spilled  the  bucket-load  on  the  dump-heap 
of  New  York.  Strange  creatures  (almost  grotesquer  fish 
than  those  in  the  Aquarium)  came  out  with  the  rest. 
Bewildered  men  like  bearded  children,  bulging  women 
shawled  and  hooded  and  ticketed  and  laden  with  luggage, 
including  the  children  of  last  year  and  next. 

They  were  so  cattle-stupid  one  almost  expected  them 

153 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

to  moo  or  baa.  But  vacuous  sheep  faces  suddenly  leaped 
to  radiance  at  a  cry  of  welcome  from  some  unforgotten 
voice.  Madonnas  of  patience  turned  to  maenads  of  joy 
at  the  sight  of  a  husband  or  a  sOn.  Americanized  fathers 
stared  down  at  foreign  lads  whom  they  had  left  at  home 
as  babes  at  breast.  Foreign  lads  stared  up  and  retreated 
into  their  mothers'  skirts  before  the  onslaught  of  strangers 
who  seized  their  mothers  and  were  seized  by  them  in 
frantic  embrace. 

The  chaos  of  reunions  was  beautiful  as  few  things  are 
beautiful  in  this  world,  and  Mtuiel's  snobbery  fled  before 
the  himian  cry. 

But  there  were  not  reunions  enough  to  go  round.  To 
some  of  those  who  had  waited  on  shore  the  ferry  brought 
no  kinfolk.  Some  of  those  from  the  boat  found  no  one 
to  welcome  them,  and  they  stared  in  awe  at  the  vast 
crags  of  Mount  Babel  piled  up  ahead  of  them. 

Muriel  saw  two  or  three  of  the  youngest  of  the  women 
to  whom  a  cab-driver  was  proffering  his  cab.  He  caught 
their  cards  from  their  hands  and  deciphered  the  ad- 
dresses. Muriel  wondered  if  they  would  go  with  him. 
She  felt  vaguely  afraid  for  them.  Then  a  woman  wearing 
a  badge  marked  "Travelers'  Aid  Society"  joined  the 
group,  took  the  tickets  from  the  cab-driver,  and  said 
something  to  him  that  led  him  to  clamber  to  the  box 
and  drive  away.  Then  she  took  charge  of  the  strangers 
as  if  she  were  the  very  goddess  of  hospitality.  Here 
Muriel  seemed  to  see  another  angel  feather.  Even  the 
sheep  were  protected. 

The  boat  was  about  to  return  to  Ellis  Island  and  Worth- 
ing led  Muriel  aboard.  There  was  such  a  stampede  that 
he  had  to  take  her  arm  to  help  her.  They  made  to  the 
upper  deck  and  stared  down  at  the  crowd.  These  were 
the  anxious  wretches  whose  relatives  had  not  come 
ashore. 

These  were  prodigal  sons  who  had  run  away,  prospered 
on  husks,  and  sent  for  their  parents  to  come  out  and  take 

154 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

their  fatted  calf  in  the  prodigal's  home.  These  were  hus- 
bands who  had  built  a  nest  in  foreign  woods  and  signaled 
their  mates  to  migrate. 

As  Muriel's  eyes  wandered  about  the  shabby  personages 
of  romance  she  found  the  sight  more  epical  than  all  the 
grandeurs  of  the  harbor,  except  the  vast  woman  that  up- 
holds the  torch  of  liberty,  and  keeps  the  ideal  visible  by 
day  and  at  night  alight.  Soon  she  caught  sight  of  a  little 
man  clinging  to  the  ferry  gate  and  straining  straight 
ahead. 

"That's  Mr.  Balinsky,"  she  told  Worthing. 

".Poor  dog!"  said  Worthing.  "You  can  see  that  he's 
the  kind  that  gets  all  the  kicks  and  tin  cans  and  never 
bites  anybody." 

Balinsky  was  pressed  against  the  forward  end  of  the 
railing  and  leaning  forward  with  the  wooden  eagerness 
of  a  figurehead.  Now  and  then  his  throat  worked  and  he 
flung  his  gaze  upward.  At  length  he  saw  Muriel,  stared, 
recognized  her.  He  tried  to  smile  and  pulled  his  hat 
from  his  head  and  stood  nodding.  He  was  too  shy  to 
call  to  her,  but  in  his  eyes  were  prayers,  and  folded  hands 
and  genuflection. 

* '  Poor  fellow !  Poor  fellow !' '  Miuiel  sighed.  "  I've  got 
to  help  him.     I've  just  got  to." 

Ahead  of  them  now  was  the  little  island  with  the  big 
buildings,  the  sieve  where  nearly  a  million  immigrants  a 
year  were  sifted  and  the  discarded  thousands  sent  back 
branded  as  imfit  for  the  high  privileges  and  hard  struggles 
of  life  in  these  United  States. 

As  the  ferry  swam  into  its  berth  a  tug  was  just  about 
to  depart.  A  clamor  of  shrieks  and  appeals  broke  from 
it  and  there  were  signs  of  a  riot  on  board.  Men  in 
uniform  were  struggling  with  men  and  women. 

As  one  of  the  ferry  hands  passed  her,  Muriel  checked 
him  to  ask  what  the  trouble  might  be.  He  answered, 
drearily: 

"That's  only  the  tug  taking  the  deported  ones  back  to 
_  155 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

the  steamships  they  came  over  on,  Miss.  It  happens  all 
the  time.  They  get  sore  when  they  find  out  this  is  as 
near  as  they'll  get  to  New  York  after  traveling  three 
thousand  miles  or  so.  They  hate  to  go  back,  but  there 
ain't  no  use  tryin'  to  buck  the  whole  United  States 
gov'ment. 

"The  other  day  one  of  the  women  went  that  wild  she 
thrun  her  own  baby  at  the  inspector's  head.  Only 
yesterday  a  young  girl  jimiped  overboard.  She'd  come 
from  Servda  to  meet  her  sweetheart,  and  he  never  met 
her.  They  sent  him  telegrams,  but  he  never  come. 
He  may  have  died  or  something.  But  she  wanted  to 
stay  and  look  for  him.  She'd  lost  her  trunk,  though,  and 
hadn't  a  penny,  and  she'd  nothing  on  earth  but  the 
clothes  was  on  her,  so  they  wouldn't  let  her  through. 
So  she  tried  to  drowned  herself.  But  they  boat-hooked 
her  out,  and  back  she  had  to  go.  Yes,  ma'am,  it's 
tough  luck,  but  so  many  of  them  gets  it  we  grow  used 
to  it." 

The  tug  puffed  by  with  its  miserable  freight  like  an  old 
slave-ship,  and  Muriel  stared  after  it  in  helpless  awe. 
Then  she  was  shaken  almost  off  her  feet  as  the  ferry 
jolted  into  its  slip.  Dr.  Worthing  supported  her,  and 
they  followed  the  crowd  scurrjdng  to  the  waiting-room. 

Balinsky  had  hung  back  to  greet  Mviriel.  He  held  his 
hat  in  both  hands  and  bowed  and  bowed  with  the  appeas- 
ing smile  of  one  whom  the  great  had  always  treated  with 
contempt  or  violence.  She  stared  at  him  in  wonderment 
a  moment,  then  that  impulsive  hand  of  hers  shot  out 
to  him. 

He  dropped  his  hat  to  the  ground  and  seized  her  hand 
in  both  of  his.  H^  was  not  quite  sure  what  to  do  with  it. 
Muriel  laughed  a  little  nervously  and  extracted  it.  He 
bent  and  ftmibled  for  his  hat,  stepped  on  it,  seized  it, 
rubbed  it  on  his  elbow,  and  clapped  it  on  his  head,  all 
in  a  panic. 

Muriel  said,  "Mr.  Balinsky,  this  is  Dr.  Worthing." 

156 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Balinsky  snatched  down  his  hat  again  and  began  to 
duck,  mumbling: 

"Much  obHged  to  meet  you,  Dr.  Voiteen," 

He  was  so  whipped  out,  so  craven  before  the  merciless- 
ness  of  the  world,  that  there  was  nothing  noble  about 
him  except  his  agony.  Dr.  Worthing  lifted  his  hat  to 
that.    Agony  was  the  doctor's  most  respected  foe. 

Balinsky  turned  at  once  to  Mtuiel:  "You  come  get  me 
mine  vife  beck?     Yes?    And  mine  Rachel,  too?    Yes?" 

"Yes,"  Muriel  faltered,  her  confidence  shaken  by  the 
sight  of  that  tug  full  of  doomed. 

They  wandered  through  the  great  depot  of  human 
freight.  Barge-loads  of  new-comers  from  a  vessel  at 
anchor  outside  were  being  run  through  a  long  alley.  At 
either  end  of  it  stood  a  doctor  in  uniform  rolling  up  eye- 
lids, ordering  tongues  thrust  out,  and  examining  scalps 
and  hands,  then  marking  the  subject  with  a  bit  of  blue 
chalk.  Some  they  passed  along,  others  they  turned  aside 
for  further  scrutiny,  scratching  an  "X"  upon  their 
sleeves  if  their  sanity  were  questioned,  a  "P"  if  their 
physical  equipment  were  suspicious. 

The  sheep  came  botmding  through  into  the  rich  pas- 
tiu-es  to  be  registered  and  ticketed,  their  friends  found  or 
telegraphed  for,  their  safety  assured  by  the  government 
or  by  charitable  societies. 

The  unlucky,  the  goats,  were  sent  bleating  into  pens 
where  they  would  be  stripped  and  studied,  peered  over 
and  cross-examined  with  relentless  care — for  the  good  of 
the  nation. 

It  is  a  little  daily  Judgment  Day  on  earth,  admitting 
some  to  paradise,  rebuffing  others  back  to  purgatory. 
It  terrified  Muriel.  She  began  to  be  afraid  that  the 
world  was  too  big  for  her. 

Balinsky  stared  at  the  ordeal.  He  had  gone  through  it 
once.  Also  he  had  brought  his  wife  and  daughter  through 
it,  and  known  twice  the  fearsome  suspense  and  the  after 
exultation.     Now  he  was  as  one  who  had  brought  his 

157 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

family  into  heaven,  only  to  be  told  that  his  beloved  were 
there  by  mistake  and  must  be  thrust  out  and  down  into 
heU. 

From  the  line  came  loud  shouts  of  greeting,  and  a  man 
with  all  his  family  assailed  Balinsky.  Evidently  they 
were  friends  of  his.  They  had  escaped  the  Russian  knout 
and  saber  and  now  they  had  slipped  past  the  American 
portcullis.  They  were  in  a  picnic  mood  and  the  father 
cuffed  Balinsky  with  ursine  hilarity.  Then  he  must  have 
asked  after  the  welfare  of  the  wife  and  daughter,  for 
abruptly  Balinsky's  bravery  collapsed  and  he  began  to 
sob  and  shake  his  head.  In  a  moment  happiness  had  fled 
and  they  all  stood  about  in  dismay.  Then  as  if  he  feared 
that  bad  luck  was  contagious,  the  father  of  the  new  flock 
herded  them  anxiously  away  from  Balinsky  toward  the 
boat  for  shore. 

To  the  deserted  Balinsky  came  a  woman  wearing  a 
badge,  and  Balinsky  turned  to  her  with  frantic  volubility. 
She  tried  to  quiet  him,  but  she  was  plainly  troubled. 
Balinsky  dragged  her  to  Muriel  and  Dr.  Worthing  and 
introduced  her  by  a  Russian  name  that  Muriel  did  not 
catch. 

She  spoke  with  the  briskness  a  business  woman  adopts, 
even  if  her  business  is  charity.  Her  English  was  good 
and  only  her  intonation  and  the  sounding  of  certain  letters 
betrayed  her  foreign  origin. 

"I  am  the  representative  of  the  Council  of  Jewish 
Women,"  she  explained.  "They  keep  me  here  to  do 
what  can  be  done  for  these  poor  souls.  I  can't  do  every- 
thing they  want,  but  I  know  what  they  suffer.  I  was  at 
Kishinev  when  the  great  pogrom  took  place.  My 
father  and  mother  were  butchered  by  the  Chernaya  Sotnia, 
the  Black  Hundreds.  I  was  a  young  girl.  I  just  escaped 
the  massacre — or  worse.  The  persecution  goes  on  still 
in  a  thousand  ways.  Ach,  these  poor  Balinskys!  I  knew 
Rachel  when  she  was  a  Uttle  girl.  She  was  pretty,  and 
still  is;    and  very  good,  and  still  is.    She  has  suffered 

158 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

enough  to  have  driven  anybody  mad.  Who  knows  what 
will  happen  to  her  when  she  gets  back  penniless,  out  of 
her  mind,  with  a  sick  mother?  Her  father  must  not  go 
back.  They  would  jail  him  or  kill  him.  It  is  too  bad, 
but  what  can  we  do?" 

"She  must  not  go!"  cried  Muriel.  "I  won't  let  her 
go." 

Balinsky  stared  at  her  as  at  a  rescmng  angel,  but  the 
other  woman  smiled  sadly: 

"The  law  is  very  strict.  The  officers  are  nearly  as 
strict." 

"What  do  I  care  about  the  law?"  Muriel  stormed. 
"All  the  other  laws  are  broken — ^for  graft  or  to  protect 
criminals.  Why  not  break  a  law  once  in  a  while  to  save 
some  poor  child?" 

"Have  you  seen  the  Commissioner?" 

Mtuiel  shook  her  head. 

"You'd  better  talk  to  him."  She  turned  to  Worthing. 
"You  are  a  doctor?" 

He  nodded. 

"You  might  say  that  you  are  Balinsky 's  doctor.  That 
gives  you  the  right  to  see  the  girl.  You  might  get  her 
before  a  board  of  special  inquiry.  You  might  succeed 
in  an  appeal;  but  the  law  is  very  plain,  and  there  are  so 
many  just  like  her.  Last  year  nearly  a  hundred  girls  just 
like  her  were  sent  back;  they  were  insane  or  feeble- 
minded. 

"The  worst  crime  of  the  Balinskys  is  their  poverty. 
Our  society  is  very  poor,  too — the  hard  times,  you  know. 
And  charity  is  the  first  luxury  people  can  ajfford  to  do 
without." 

After  a  certain  amount  of  trouble  Muriel's  card,  on 
which  she  ventured  to  write  "daughter  of  Jacob  Schuyler, 
Esq.,"  got  her  into  the  sanctum  of  the  Assistant  Com- 
missioner. It  was  not  hard  for  him  to  be  gracious  to  so 
pretty  a  member  of  so  powerful  a  family.     But  he  checked 

159 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

her  impetuous  raid  on  his  heart  by  telling  her  that  her 
father's  secretary,  'Mr.  Chivot,  and  he  had  talked  the 
whole  matter  over,  and  that  he  was  afraid  the  law  must 
take  its  course.  Good  laws  were  bound  to  seem  cruel 
at  times,  but  they  were  for  the  general  welfare. 

Miiriel  had  a  woman's  distaste  for  such  frozen  phrases 
as  "the  general  welfare"  and  "the  public  weal."  They 
were  to  her  but  screens  for  countless  little  cruelties.  She 
could  see  the  tremendous  city  across  the  bay,  and  she 
could  not  believe  that  it  could  be  imperiled  by  one  poor 
demented  girl. 

She  remembered  what  Maryla  had  said:  "It  is  not 
meant  that  the  law  should  kill  three  good  people  who 
work  hard,"  and  also  she  recalled  that  watchword  of 
action,  "If  you  don't,  who  will?" 

Mvuiel  turned  all  her  eloquence  on  the  Commissioner, 
but  he  could  only  repeat  that  he  was  powerless,  and  that 
officers  are  paid  to  administer  the  laws,  not  to  criticize 
them. 

"Do  you  remember  Max  Jukes?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  met  him,"  said  Muriel. 

"Probably  not.  He  died  in  1802.  He  was  just  a  poor, 
old,  demented  wretch,  but  he  had  a  lot  of  children. 
Scientists  have  traced  his  descendants  and  found  over  a 
thousand  of  them  defectives,  degenerates,  or  criminals 
whom  the  State  of  New  York  has  had  to  take  care  of. 
He  has  cost  the  state  a  good  deal  more  than  a  million 
dollars  up  to  now  and  there's  no  end  in  sight.  The 
defectives  we  already  have  are  costing  this  country  a 
hundred  million  dollars  every  year.  We  can't  afford  to 
let  any  more  in,  can  we?" 

He  thought  that  this  woiild  convince  her,  but  she 
answered  with  feminine  logic:  ' 

"Well,  since  you're  spending  so  much,  a  little  more 
won't  be  noticed." 

"Oh,  Lord!"  groaned  the  Assistant  Commissioner. 

Dr.  Worthing  saved  the  day  by  asking  if  he  might  not; 

160 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

examine  the  girl  as  a  physician  retained  by  ner  friends. 
The  Assistant  Commissioner  consented. 

Rachel  Balinsky  and  her  mother  were  already  in  the 
custody  of  the  deporting  division.  The  wretches  who 
are  detained  in  this  limbo  of  wanhope  have  less  than  no 
political  influence,  and  their  claims  upon  the  money  of  the 
government  or  the  interest  of  the  statesmen  are  so  slight 
that  disgraceful  conditions  were  permitted  to  continue. 

Nearly  two  thousand  of  these  ambiguous  citizens  of 
nowhere  were  held  at  this  time  for  various  reasons.  The 
lucky  few  slept  upon  iron  beds  without  mattresses  and 
often  without  springs  and  covering.  The  majority  slept 
upon  the  bare  stone  floors. 

In  one  room  they  passed  Mtuiel  saw  three  hundred  men 
and  boys,  old  and  young,  good  and  bad,  criminals  and 
insane.  The  women's  quarters  were  of  the  same  quality, 
only  the  prisoners  were  more  pitiful.  Some  of  them 
were  brazen  and  offered  to  flirt  Dr.  Worthing  out  of 
Muriel's  possession.  The  reasons  for  their  deportation 
were  plain.  Muriel  was  not  educated  to  the  post- 
graduate height  of  being  sorry  for  them. 

The  feeble-bodied  mother  Balinsky  and  her  feeble- 
minded daughter  were  brought  forward,  and  the  mother 
came  hastening  with  a  new  fever  of  hope.  The  daughter 
was  not  anxious,  not  troubled  at  all.  She  had  her  own 
merry  thoughts  and  snickered  to  herself  over  her  secret 
amusements. 

Her  weird  humor  sent  Muriel's  blood  to  ice.  She  was 
afraid  of  her,  with  all  the  shuddering  dread  of  the  young 
for  those  whom  a  yoimger  world  beheved  to  be  filled  with 
devils. 

But  Dr.  Worthing  was  not  afraid,  and  Muriel  was  ex- 
travagantly impressed  by  his  gentle  forcefulness,  the 
searching  scholarship  of  his  eyes. 

He  led  the  mother  aside  and  talked  to  her.  She 
flushed  and  stammered  and  what  she  told  seemed  to  stir 

i6i 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Worthing  out  of  his  calm.  On  his  set  jaws  little  'muscles 
worked  and  white  flashes  alternated  with  red.  At  length 
he  came  back  to  Muriel  and  murmured: 

"We'd  better  go  now." 

"Is  there  no  hope?"  Muriel  sighed. 

He  shook  his  head.     "Better  tell  them  good-by." 

Balinsky  had  caught  the  question  "no  hope?"  and  the 
answer. 

He  began  tearing  at  his  beard  and  at  his  hair,  gnawing 
his  wrists  and  the  backs  of  his  hands,  and  snarling  as  if 
he  would  destroy  himself.  He  was  trying  to  keep  from 
shrieking  aloud.  His  wife  ran  to  him  to  quiet  him. 
Even  Rachel  ceased  giggling  and  tried  to  soothe  her  father 
as  if  he  were  a  doll. 

Muriel  was  overwhelmed  by  her  failure;  her  lips 
whitened,  her  eyes  glazed.  She  would  have  broken  down 
and  wept  madly,  but  Dr.  Worthing  led  her  out  into  the 
sea-air  and  tried  to  comfort  her.  She  leaned  against  him 
for  strength. 

"You  must  get  away  from  here  at  once,"  he  insisted. 
"It's  no  place  for  you.  You  aren't  meant  for  such 
scenes." 

"If  they  can  stand  them,  I  can,"  she  answered,  clench- 
ing all  her  muscles.  "I'm  as  strong  as  anybody.  I'm 
not  going  to  give  up.  The  poor  souls !  There's  no  hope, 
then?" 

" I  don't  know,"  he  said.     "There  might  be." 

"Then  why  in  Heaven's  name  did  you  tell  them  there 
wasn't  any?"  she  demanded. 

"They've  been  fooled  often  enough.  If  we  can  save 
them,  that  will  be  time  enough  to  tell  them.  But  to 
raise  their  hopes  again — no." 

"What  do  you  plan  to  do?" 

"See  the  Commissioner.  I  don't  believe  the  girl's 
really  insane.  It's  just  a  collapse  of  nerves.  She  had  a 
horrible  experience  in  Russia — I  can't  tell  you  what 
it  was,  but — ^well,  there's  one  Russian  officer  I'd  like  to 

162 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

vivisect.  The  girl  tried  to  kill  him.  I  wish  she  had. 
But  she  had  to  be  kept  in  hiding  in  a  dark  cellar  for 
months,  with  almost  no  food.  And  she  and  her  old 
mother  walked  a  hundred  miles  by  night,  hiding  by  day, 
and  got  across  the  frontier  in  disguise,  and  made  the 
journey  to  the  sea,  and  crossed  in  the  steerage  in  stormy 
weather;  they  were  battened  in  for  eight  days.  They 
got  to  New  York  at  last.  When  Rachel  met  her  father 
in  the  sunlight  and  liberty,  she  almost  died  of  joy. 
But  the  city  was  so  big  it  overwhelmed  her  with  its 
crowds  and  its  richness.  She  tried  to  learn  the  new 
language,  keep  up  the  pace.  And  then  the  hard  times 
came;  her  father  lost  his  job.  She  worked  day  and 
night  in  a  smothering  little  room  and  had  nothing  much 
to  eat.  So  finally  she  went  into  nervous  bankruptcy. 
Who  wouldn't  ?  The  wonder  is  that  she  is  alive.  If  she 
had  rest  and  good  food  and  some  relief  from  terror  she'd 
com.e  out  all  right,  I'm  sure.  If  they  ship  her  back  to 
Russia  she'll  die." 

"I  can  give  her  food  and  rest,"  Muriel  cried.  "I'll 
get  her  out  to  the  country.  She  shall  have  everything, 
everything.  If  only  we  can  get  her  away  from  this  hideous 
place!" 

"That's  the  problem." 

They  went  back  to  the  Commissioner.  Dr.  Worthing 
told  what  he  had  learned  from  the  girl's  mother;  what 
he  believed  about  her  condition.  The  law  permits  an 
alien  with  a  mental  defect  to  be  deported  without  recourse, 
but  since  Muriel  Schuyler  stood  sponsor  for  her,  the 
Commissioner  consented  to  forward  an  appeal.  He  could 
do  nothing  more  than  that,  except  to  delay  her  deporta- 
tion till  the  appeal  was  heard. 

"And  they  won't  go  on  that  ship  to-day?"  Muriel 
asked. 

"No;  it  will  be  some  weeks,  perhaps,  before  the  appeal 
can  be  reached." 

163 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Suddenly  the  Commissioner,  who  had  looked  as  fiend- 
ishly heartless  as  a  Rhadamanthus,  was  transformed  to  a 
saint  in  Muriel's  eyes.  She  had  an  impulse  to  hug  him, 
but  resisted  it.  She  dragged  Dr.  Worthing  back  to  the 
detention-room  to  tell  Balinsky  the  good  news.  He  was 
not  there.  On  the  floor  in  a  huddle  of  abject  surrender 
was  his  wife;  at  her  side  was  Rachel,  holding  her  fingers 
before  her  face  and  laughing  at  them. 

Muriel  ran  to  Mrs.  BaHnsky,  knelt  by  her,  and  told  her 
that  she  would  not  be  taken  that  day,  not  for  weeks,  and 
if  there  were  any  justice  on  earth,  not  for  ever. 

The  woman  had  no  strength  to  be  glad  vidth.  She 
mumbled  a  few  words  of  the  Jargon  and  feebly  patted 
Muriel's  hand. 

"Where  is  your  husband?    I  must  tell  him." 

"Gone,"  she  whispered. 

Muriel  ran  to  the  slip.  The  ferry  had  just  shoved  out. 
She  waved  and  called,  but  no  one  heard  or  saw  her,  least 
of  all  Balinsky,  whom  she  could  see  bent  upon  the  rail, 
his  face  in  his  crossed  arms. 

There  was  no  way  to  overtake  him  or  to  reach  shore 
save  by  the  same  boat  on  its  next  trip. 

There  was  much  time  to  kill,  and  Worthing  and  Muriel 
spent  it  in  wandering  about  the  island.  Its  buildings 
seemed  like  temples  now,  and  the  devoted  workers  in  the 
hospitals  and  administration  buildings  seemed  to  be 
priests  of  a  lofty  creed.  There  was  leisure  for  much  talk 
with  her  companion.  They  were  like  two  recruits  hap- 
pening to  march  at  elbow  through  a  great  battle.  Hence- 
forth they  were  comrades. 

It  was  the  same  world,  the  same  things  were  happening 
in  the  same  sky,  buildings,  streets,  islands,  and  waterways ; 
but  the  light  had  changed  and  the  eyes  that  looked  upon  it 
all  had  changed.  Therefore  it  was  another  world.  So  hell 
and  heaven  might  be  the  same  place,  and  serve  both  for 
damnation  and  paradise. 

164 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

At  last  the  ferry  came  and  took  them  back  to  the  city. 
On  the  boat  were  a  few  immigrants  who  had  come  through 
the  ordeal  and  were  expecting  friends  to  meet  them  at  the 
dock. 

When  they  landed  there  was  an  anxious  crowd  waiting. 
It  seemed  the  same  crowd.  There  were  the  same  Madon- 
nas turned  to  maenads,  the  same  fathers  and  children 
meeting  as  strangers,  the  same  bewildered  peasant  girls 
drifting  to  the  same  polyglot  cab-drivers  and  rescued  by 
the  same  vigilance. 

This  coimtry  was  but  a  shore,  and  the  people  waves, 
strangely  alike  for  all  their  differences. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FOUR  sewing-machines  were  simmering  in  a  row  vnth 
a  murmur  of  many  kettles  drumming  under  dancing 
lids.  In  a  comer  an  ancient  white-bearded  sempster  was 
maldng  long  stitches  by  hand,  the  needle  dipping  to  the 
cloth,  then  stretching  far  away,  like  a  swan  drinking. 

Dogged  fatigue  bent  the  necks  of  all  the  workers  but 
one;  and  her  a  keener  distress  than  fatigue  tormented 
into  tossing  her  head  and  tossing  her  eyes  upward  till 
they  were  but  white  lines  of  despair. 

A  geranium  in  the  window  chimed  one  little  velvet  tone. 
And  the  girl's  face  was  lifted  on  the  stem  of  its  throat  with 
the  same  wistful  beauty.  Her  beauty  was  as  poignant 
and  as  alien  and  as  trite  as  the  Miserere  from  "II  Trova- 
tore"  which  a  street-piano  was  shattering  forth  on  the 
pavement  below  for  children  to  dance  to. 

Like  a  marquise  in  rags  dumped  in  a  tumbrel  for  the 
guillotine,  fate  seemed  to  have  this  girl  in  a  cart  jouncing 
down  the  road  to  an  ugly  end.  Her  feet  that  plied  the 
iron  treadle  were  exquisitely  out  of  place  and  her  hands 
exquisitely  inappropriate  to  the  wheel. 

Her  feet  plied  the  treadle  incessantly,  and  incessantly 
under  her  silken  hands  flowed  rough  fabrics  like  a  little 
brook  that  passed  under  the  stabbing  needle  and  fell  to 
the  floor  in  a  cataract. 

Her  fingers,  lifted  now  and  then  to  thrust  back  from 
her  hot  forehead  an  encroaching  tendril  of  her  tmiber  hair, 
paused  at  times  to  pluck  at  her  throat  and  push  aside  the 
light  waist,  laying  bare  a  beauty  that  was  pitiful;  for  it 
woiild  have  honored  Orient  pearls  to  lie  there. 

i66 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Here  was  the  beggar  maid  ready  to  grace  a  throne. 
But  where  was  her  Cophetua?  She  seemed  to  dream 
him  and  await  him;  for  the  eyes  she  cast  about  the  dingy 
tenement  ached  with  revulsion  and  closed  again  upon 
their  own  visions. 

Young,  beautiful,  clean,  lovable,  she  glowed  among  the 
debris  of  squalor,  a  flame  in  ashes.  It  was  midsummer  in 
the  year,  but  just  spring  in  her  soul.  Yet  she  sat  and 
sewed  from  early  morning  till  late  at  night. 

She  was  not  sewing  upon  delicate  fabrics  for  herself  or 
for  other  beautiful  women.  She  sewed  upon  rough, 
cheap  wear  for  rough,  cheap  men.  She  sewed  in  the 
stifiing-hot  room,  and  the  sweat  of  toil  and  of  heat  beaded 
on  her  forehead  and  on  her  neck  and  dropped  on  her  hands. 

AU  the  rest  of  the  Sokalski  family  worked  likewise — 
the  decrepit  grandfather  in  the  corner,  the  father  at  the 
sewing-machine,  the  mother  when  she  was  not  at  the 
stove,  the  plump  little  sister  Dosia,  and  the  boarder 
Pasinsky  who  shared  their  two  rooms  and  their  two  meals 
with  them. 

The  new  labor  laws  had  rendered  the  old  sweatshops 
untenable;  the  factory  regulations  and  inspections  were 
so  strict  now  that  the  shoddier  manufacturers  preferred 
to  give  out  piece-work  to  be  done  at  home.  Now  it  was 
not  necessary  to  pay  foremen  to  drive  these  people.  It 
was  not  necessary  to  pay  for  overtime  or  night-work. 
These  wretches  in  the  eternal  contest  with  rent  and  food 
drove  themselves  and  wrought  on  till  they  dropped. 

The  Sokalskis  were  what  is  known  as  "pants-finishers." 
The  father,  Adam  Sokalski,  made  trips  to  the  shop, 
staggering  under  a  load  of  "completed  garments,"  and 
came  away  staggering  under  a  load  of  "cut-outs."  His 
wife,  Rosa  Sokalska,  cooked  and  sewed,  alternately  re- 
gretting that  she  could  not  do  both  at  once. 

They  worked  usually  without  talk.  To-day  when  they 
spoke  at  all  they  spoke  of  poor  Balinsky,  whose  lot  was 
worse  than  theirs.     Adam,  who  was  very  reHgious,  used 

167 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Balinsky  for  a  moral,  and  said  how  glad  they  should  all 
be  that  they  were  together,  while  Balinsky's  home  was 
wrecked.  He  said  that  God  was  good  to  them  and  they 
should  be  grateful. 

Maryla  said  nothing,  but  she  swept  the  room  with 
bitter  eyes  and  smiled  bitterly  at  the  long  seam  she 
was  making. 

They  spoke  of  the  fine  lady  who  had  promised  her  help 
and  ridden  away  in  the  beautiful  car.  But  she  had  not 
come  back.  No  doubt  by  now  poor  Rachel  and  her 
mother  were  on  the  steamer  that  was  to  take  them  to  the 
Russian  Gehenna. 

Rosa,  Adam's  wife  and  Maryla's  mother,  thought  that 
Balinsky  should  be  invited  to  Hve  with  them.  There 
was  room  for  one  more  cot.  He  could  pay  something, 
which  would  help  them,  and  he  could  save  something, 
which  would  help  him. 

Maryla's  nostrils  stiffened  with  resentment,  but  still 
she  said  nothing.  It  was  not  pleasant  to  work  and  eat 
and  sleep  and  dress  and  Uve  in  these  two  rooms  with 
a  father,  a  grandfather,  and  the  boarder,  Pasinsky,  who 
loved  her.  After  all,  the  addition  of  one  more  would 
make  little  difference. 

And  then  a  lean  hand  clacked  like  a  skeleton's  at  the 
door  and  Michal  Balinsky  came  in.  Mrs.  Sokalska  was 
at  the  stove,  and  he  sank  on  her  chair.  He  answered  the 
questioning  eyes  with  a  flopping  motion  of  his  arms,  and 
they  knew  from  his  attitude  that  he  had  been  imable  to 
rescue  his  family  from  the  government. 

"I  couldn't  vait  to  see  dem  tooked  by  das  schiff.  I 
could  not  do  it.     Ach,  du  lieber  Gott!" 

His  head  rolled  with  sickly  dizziness  on  his  gaunt 
shoulders  and  he  would  have  slid  from  his  chair,  but 
Rosa  ran  to  him  and  gathered  him  up,  saying: 

"You  should  lay  down  once,  Michal." 

She  lifted  him  and  supported  him  into  the  next  room 
and  lowered  him  to  a  cot  that  was  there  by  a  window 

i68 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

opening  on  a  court.  She  offered  to  make  him  ''ein 
Tasschen  Thee,"  but  he  shook  his  head  and  closed  his  eyes, 
and  she  left  him.  She  did  not  notice  that  a  pair  of  long, 
sharp  shears  lay  on  the  window-sill  at  his  hand. 

She  went  back  to  work  and  the  sewing-machines  sim- 
mered again.  The  oldster's  hand  rose  and  dipped  like 
a  black  swan's  neck.  Adam  hunched  over  his  machine 
and  pedaled  like  a  spent  bicycle  -  racer  on  the  sixth 
day.  Rosa's  fat  legs  waddled  at  her  treadles  and  she 
puffed  hard,  rising  now  and  then  to  go  to  the  stove  and 
make  a  clatter  that  fretted  the  weary  laborers.  Plimip 
little  Dosia  sewed  and  listened  to  the  racket  from  the 
street,  and  Henryk  Pasinsky,  the  boarder,  glanced  at  the 
beauty  of  Maryla,  who  sewed  and  sighed  inaudibly, 
pausing  now  and  then  to  beat  her  breast  as  if  to  pound 
down  the  rebellion  smoldering  there. 

There  were  no  other  sounds,  just  the  whir,  whir,  whir 
of  the  machines,  the  squeal  of  rusty  treadles,  and  the 
discouraged  squeaks  of  a  shabby  canary  hopping  from 
perch  to  perch  in  its  little  cage. 

Later  there  was  an  unusual  noise  in  the  streets  as  two 
push-cart  peddlers  disputed  a  strip  of  curb,  and  in  that 
extra  din  nobody  heard  the  short  grunt  and  the  low  moan 
of  Balinsky  as  he  pressed  the  shears  against  his  side  and 
rolled  over  upon  them,  burying  his  mouth  in  the  blanket 
to  smother  his  angmsh. 

By  and  by  there  was  an  unfamiliar  knock  at  the  door, 
the  machines  stopped  whirring,  and  the  toilers  looked  at 
one  another  a  moment  before  Rosa  called,   "Herein!" 

The  door  opened  and  Muriel  stood  at  the  sill;  behind 
her  was  young  Worthing. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Muriel. 

Maryla  rose  to  her  feet  and  Pasinsky  stood  up  respect- 
fully.    Muriel  recognized  Maryla  and  smiled. 

"Isn't  this  Miss  Sokalska?  I'm  Miss  Schuyler.  I  met 
you  yesterday.  I'm  sorry  to  break  in  on  you  without 
6  169 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

warning,  but  we  went  to  Mr.  Balinsky's  home  in  Batavia 
Street  and  he  had  gone.  They  told  us  he  might  be  here. 
I  was  so  anxious  to  get  word  to  him  that  they  aren't 
going  to  send  his  wife  and  daughter  away." 

This  good  news  was  too  stunning  for  speech.  The 
starers  only  stared  a  little  harder.  Rosa  sat  down  and 
Adam  rose  quickly. 

"Dey  dun't  sendet  Rachel  and  Miriam  avay  now?" 
Rosa  fluttered. 

"No,"  said  Muriel.  "They've  granted  us  an  appeal. 
She  won't  go  for  weeks,  and  she  won't  go  at  all  if  we  can 
help  it.  Dr.  Worthing  and  I — this  is  Dr.  Worthing;  you 
have  him  to  thank  for  it.  And  he  thinks  the  girl  will 
get  well.     Don't  you,  Dr.  Worthing?" 

Dr.  Worthing  nodded. 

Rosa  lifted  herself  to  her  feet,  beating  her  palms 
together,  and  stumbled  into  the  other  room,  crying: 

"Michal!  Michal!  Dey  dun't  gone  yet;  dey  dim't 
gone  never,  maybe." 

And  then  she  screamed  and  fled  backward,  gaping. 

She  could  not  speak.  She  could  only  stammer  and 
point  with  a  shivering  hand. 

After  the  first  hubbub  of  terror  Dr.  Worthing  took 
charge  of  the  panic-filled  home.  He  rolled  the  bleeding 
wretch  to  his  other  side,  drew  the  shears  from  the  wound, 
cut  away  the  clothes  and,  catching  the  flesh  in  his  strong 
fingers,  checked  the  hemorrhage. 

He  cast  his  eyes  on  the  palsied  little  mob  crowding 
about  him,  ordered  them  away  with  a  rough  "Get  out 
and  stay  out."  Then  he  hesitated  a  moment  before  he 
called: 

"Oh,  Miss  Schuyler!" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  from  the  other  room. 

"Would  you  mind —  Do  you  think  you  could  help 
me  a  moment?" 

"Certainly,"  she  said,  as  she  came  to  the  door. 

170 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Are  you — ^are  you  plucky  enough  to  hold  this — ^like 
this?" 

"I'U— I'll  try,"  she  said,  weakly. 

"It's  to  save  a  life  or  I  wouldn't  ask  you." 

"Of  coiu-se,"  she  panted. 

He  showed  her  how  to  squeeze  the  severed  arteries. 
She  peeled  off  her  gloves,  set  her  jaws,  and  obeyed  him. 
He  whipped  off  his  coat,  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  wrote  a  few 
words  on  a  piece  of  paper,  and  sent  Dosia  flying  to  the 
nearest  drug-store;  then  he  sent  Rosa  scurrying  for  hot 
water  and  salt,  and  Maryla  for  bandages,  while  he  scoured 
his  own  hands  with  relentless  violence. 

Muriel  watched  him  as  he  went  about  his  task,  and  his 
concise  methods  fascinated  her  so  that  she  forgot  to  faint. 
How  amazing  it  was  that  she  should  be  here  in  this  place 
ministering  to  this  poor  Jew  whose  side  was  pierced  as 
with  a  spear! 

Eventually  Dosia  returned  with  the  druggist  himself, 
Mr.  Pytlik,  who  was  also  a  trained  nurse  and  occasional 
physician.  He  brought  sterilized  gauze  and  adhesive 
plasters,  stimtilants  and  antiseptics  and  a  case  of  instru- 
ments. He  offered  to  take  Muriel's  place,  and  Dr. 
Worthing  dismissed  her  with  a  word  of  praise: 

"Thank  you,  and — ^my  congratulations." 

Muriel  bowed  and  ttuned  for  the  door.  The  prop  of 
necessity  was  gone  and  she  made  a  toper's  effort  to  walk 
a  chalk-line.  She  got  to  the  other  room,  whispering  al- 
most inaudibly,  "I  never  fainted  in  my  life  and  I'm  not 
going  to  now." 

But. Maryla,  seeing  by  her  face  that  she  was  about  to 
wilt,  ran  and  caught  her,  thrust  a  chair  against  her  knees, 
and  hastened  for  the  vinegar-cruet.  Muriel  bent  her 
head  forward  almost  to  her  knees  and  the  blood  came 
back  to  her.  She  bullied  herself  into  resistance  and  put 
off  Maryla's  ministrations  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"Thank  you,  I'm  all  right  now.  I  mustn't  be  a  silly 
coward,"  she  said.     "What's  a  little  blood?" 

171 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"You  are  tainible  brave,"  said  Maryla.  "I  would 
have  run  away,  me." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Muriel,  surprised  at  the  tribute  and 
the  amount  of  comfort  it  gave  her. 

From  force  of  habit  Maryla  sat  down  at  her  sewing- 
machine.  She  was  almost  always  there.  There  was 
always  work  to  do.  Automatically  her  feet  began  to 
plod  the  old  treadmill,  her  hands  to  slide  the  fabric  for- 
ward. She  looked  back  to  Muriel  and  apologized: 
"Excuse  it,  please."  Adam  had  settled  back  to  his  task 
as  soon  as  the  doctor  took  charge  of  Balinsky.  He  had 
dragged  Dosia  back  to  her  machine  and  Pasinsky  had 
returned  to  his.  With  sly  glances  he  seemed  to  be 
comparing  Muriel  and  Maryla — to  Maryla's  advantage. 
The  old  man,  short-sighted,  deaf,  and  senile,  had  known 
nothing  of  the  turmoil.  He  continued  to  stitch  as  if  he 
were  hastening  to  finish  his  own  shroud.  Muriel  won- 
dered how  he  kept  from  sewing  his  own  beard  to  it. 

Muriel,  to  drown  the  noises  from  the  other  room, 
cast  about  for  a  topic  of  conversation;  she  could  do  no 
better  than: 

"Pretty  hot  day,  isn't  it?" 

"Tairrible,"  said  Maryla. 

"Too  hot  for  you  to  be  working  here." 

This  almost  brought  a  smile  to  Maryla.  As  if  the 
weather  had  anything  to  do  with  it!  Miuiel  tried  to  be 
gracious. 

"I  suppose  you'd  rather  finish  your  work  now  so  that 
you  can  have  the  cool  of  the  evenings  free." 

Maryla  smiled  patiently.  "My  rather  is  what  I  do 
not  get.     By  night,  too,  we  work." 

"Really?"  said  Muriel.  "It  must  be  all  the  better 
when  Svmday  comes.  Central  Park  is  beautiful  now, 
isn't  it?     Do  you  go  there  often?" 

"Ah!  Tsentral  Park.  Oh  yes,  I  go  by  Tsentral  Park 
in  my  own  texikeb."  She  laughed  till  she  saw  that 
Muriel  was  puzzled  at  her  irony.     Irony  is  impolite.     She 

172 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

dropped  it.  "Never  did  I  see  that  Park  yet.  It  is  too 
much  for  a  walking.  It  takes  helf  a  day,  and  ten  cents 
it  costs  to  go  by  street-cars." 

"What's  ten  cents?"  Muriel  exclaimed  before  she 
reaHzed  how  it  might  soimd  here. 

"Ten  cents  means  much  sewing,  much  aching;  ten 
cents  is  dinner  for  us  all." 

"You've  never  seen  Central  Park?  You've  never  been 
up-town?"  Muriel  cried. 

Maryla  shook  her  head  as  if  answering  the  foolish  ques- 
tions of  a  child.  Muriel  could  not  endure  the  dogged 
drudgery  and  the  silence  broken  only  by  the  sounds; 
from  the  next  room,  the  groans  of  BaHnsky  and  the 
business  of  the  doctor. 

"And  what  are  you  sewing?"  Muriel  asked. 

"Pents." 

Maryla  had  to  repeat  it  before  the  wondering  Muriel 
recognized  it  as  a  word  she  hated.  The  more  hateful  it 
seemed  to  her  that  so  fine  a  woman  as  Maryla  should  de- 
vote her  days  and  nights  and  her  eyes  and  her  soul  to- 
such  manufactvire. 

Dr.  Worthing  came  in  now  with  Mr.  PytHk.  He  had 
finished  repairing  the  rent  in  Balinsky's  side  so  far  as  he 
could  do  it.  The  rest  of  the  work  was  Balinsky's.  Mr. 
Pytlik  was  loud  in  praise  of  the  young  surgeon : 

"He  done  fine!  Never  a  finer  voik  I  seen  it,  no,  not 
by  clinics." 

Mr.  Pytlik  hurried  away  to  fill  some  prescriptions. 
Dr.  Worthing  called  for  more  water,  and  Rosa  filled  a 
basin  at  the  faucet  and  held  it  for  him.  V/hile  he  scoured 
his  blood-stained  arms  and  hands  he  told  her  how  to  care 
for  Balinsky.  He  had  given  him  the  tonic  of  hope,  and 
she  must  convince  him  that  his  Miriam  and  his  Rachel 
would  be  restored  to  him.  Muriel  added  her  vow  that 
it  should  be  accomplished. 

Muriel    continued   to   study    Maryla   furtively.     The 

173 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Polish  girl  was  so  remote,  so  utterly  unlike  herself,  that 
there  could  be  no  sense  of  rivalry,  no  excuse  for  that 
instant  jealousy  of  one  woman  for  another. 

To  Mviriel  Maryla's  presence  here  seemed  a  crime. 
The  very  fact  of  being  a  flower  gave  her  a  right  to  a  spot 
in  a  garden.  It  is  the  right  and  the  business  of  flowers 
to  decorate  the  light. 

Muriel  felt  one  of  those  impulses  of  hers  coming  on. 
She  rose  and  went  to  the  machine  and  stopped  Maryla's 
hand  at  the  wheel. 

"Do  you  know  what  I'm  going  to  do  with  you?"  said 
Muriel. 

"No,  ma'am,"  said  Maryla. 

"I'm  going  to  bundle  you  into  that  taxicab  down- 
stairs and  take  you  for  a  good  long  ride." 

Maryla  laughed.    Angels  do  not  happen  nowadays. 

"I  mean  it,"  Muriel  insisted. 

Even  there  and  even  then  that  woman  s  first  protest 
was,  "But  I  got  nothing  to  wear." 

Muriel  wanted  to  cufl  her  ears,  but  she  said,  "It's  a 
closed  taxicab  and  nobody  can  see  you.  But  you  can 
see  everybody." 

Maryla  shook  her  head.  Her  mother  and  Dosia  as- 
sailed her  with  protests.  They  would  doubtless  have 
been  glad  to  go  along,  but  Muriel  did  not  feel  quite  up 
to  that  Samaritan  sublimity.  Even  Adam  nodded  his 
consent. 

Pasinsky  rose  and  lifted  Maryla  from  the  chair  and 
put  his  hands  on  his  heart. 

"  Pleass — to  pleass  me.     I  esk  you,  I  esk  you." 

Dr.  Worthing,  seeing  that  Muriel  was  in  earnest,  pre- 
scribed the  outing  for  Maryla,  and  she  consented.  She 
brought  forth  a  hat  that  was  in  good  taste  and  of  a 
simplicity  that  would  have  cost  a  lot  of  money  in  Paris. 
Also  she  slipped  behind  a  calico  hanging  that  served 
as  a  wardrobe  and  a  boudoir  and  emerged  in  her  other 
dress.     She  had  made  it  herself  and  it  became  her. 

174 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Mviriel  went  to  tell  Balinsky  good-by.  He  looked  lu^e 
a  wax  effigy.  As  she  promised  him  the  salvation  of  his 
household  a  thin  little  worm  of  blood  crawled  through  his 
cheek.  He  was  down  indeed,  utterly  dependent  on  help, 
a  curious  object  to  be  causing  the  amoimt  of  trouble  he 
was  giving  everybody;  clogging  the  wheels  of  the  govern- 
ment; taking  the  time  of  the  busy;  robbing  the  poor  of 
their  space  and  food  and  pence;  and  wringing  the  heart 
of  the  rich. 

But  it  is  well  that  the  big  ships  should  stop  and  turn 
about  at  the  cry,  "Man  overboard!"  no  matter  who  or 
what  the  man,  lest  the  habit  of  mercy  be  lost  and  love 
should  cease  to  make  the  world  go  round. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THERE  was  no  little  excitement  in  Orchard  Street 
when  Maryla  Sokalska  stepped  into  the  taxicab. 
The  neighbors  thought  she  must  be  arrested  by  detectives 
or,  more  fascinating  still,  was  being  carried  away  by  a 
pair  of  those  white-slave  dealers  who  were  so  fashionable 
a  sensation  in  all  the  newspapers  for  a  year  or  two. 

Maryla  was  something  of  a  sensation  to  herself;  but 
after  the  first  few  spine-snapping  plunges  of  her  first 
taxicab  she  settled  back  upon  the  cushions  with  a  fair 
imitation  of  one  who  had  been  bom  in  a  taxicab.  Most 
women  are  luxurious  by  nature  and  take  to  it  at  the  first 
chance  as  incubator  or  hen-bred  ducks  take  to  the  first 
water  they  can  reach. 

Dr.  Worthing  had  to  get  out  at  Thirty-first  Street. 
When  Muriel  asked  him  to  finish  the  ride  he  answered: 

"  Do  you  want  to  lose  me  my  job?  It's  probably  gone 
already." 

"You'd  easily  get  another  one,"  said  Miiriel,  with  adu- 
lation. "I'U  call  you  up.  We  haven't  seen  Happy 
Hanigan  yet." 

"AH  telephone  orders  promptly  filled,"  he  said,  and 
dropped  to  the  ground. 

How  well  acquainted  they  had  become  and  how  busy 
they  had  been  together  without  working  at  all  upon  the 
original  cause  of  their  acquaintance!  Happy  was  like  a 
dissonant  Httle  chord  by  which  a  tune  modulates  into  an 
entirely  new  key. 

Maryla  smiled  to  herself  as  Muriel  stared  after  the  form 
of   Dr.   Worthing  striding   through  the   crowd.     If  be 

176 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

had  been  a  young  god  vanishing  into  a  thick  mist  she 
could  hardly  have  admired  him  more.  She  did  not 
realize  how  fervently  she  sighed. 

"Isn't  he  wonderful?" 

"  Wanderfool !"  said  Maryla,  and  felt  more  at  ease,  see- 
ing that  even  the  great  Miss  Schuyler  was  ordinary  clay. 

The  taxicab  moved  across  to  Fifth  Avenue  and  on 
north.  Maryla's  pride  kept  her  from  expressing  her 
excitement  over  the  new  country  she  was  visiting.  The 
gleaming  Avenue  with  its  wealth-choked  sidewalks  and 
windows  filled  her  with  a  symphonic  music.  The  shops, 
with  the  gowns,  the  hats,  the  jewels  pleading  to  be  bought 
and  worn,  sickened  her  with  desire.  When  at  length 
they  reached  the  suave  roads  and  green  velvet  of  the  Park 
it  suffered  by  comparison  with  the  windows.  The  Park 
was  very  beautiful,  of  course,  and  she  would  have  reveled 
in  it  if  she  had  not  seen  the  shop  windows  first.  They 
followed  her  in  memory. 

Woman-like,  she  had  been  able  to  see  and  to  remember 
details  extraordinarily.  One  glance  at  a  complex  gown 
left  its  every  detail  in  her  mind. 

Riverside  Drive,  the  heroic  river,  the  lofty  tomb  of 
General  Grant — all  these  things  were  fine,  of  course,  but 
she  saw  them  as  through  shop  windows,  darkly. 

Muriel  watched  her  and  understood  how  much  was; 
mutely  expressed  in  that  passionate  ardor  of  womankind 
for  gorgeous  things  to  put  on  and  wear  about. 

Then  it  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  she  had  a  fussy 
old  father  who  was  probably  setting  the  police  on  her  trail. 

Muriel  might  have  stopped  at  a  drug-store  and  tele- 
phoned, but  it  would  be  qmcker  to  run  home  in  a  taxicab. 
She  could  hardly  dispossess  Maryla  so  far  north.  She 
decided  to  take  Maryla  home  with  her. 

The  footman  who  had  said,  "Why,  Miss  Muriel!"  when 
she  ran  out,  now  that  she  came  back,  said:  "Oh,  Miss 
Muriel!    Your  father's  looking  for  you,  Miss,  and  he's 

177 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

scoured  the  town  over  for  you.  You're  not  hurt,  are 
you?" 

"No,  but  I  want  tea — ^tea  for  two.  Then  telephone 
Mr.  Chivot  that  I'm  home  and  ask  him  to  find  father  and 
set  his  mind  at  rest." 

Maryla  was  confoimded  almost  to  tears  by  the  majesty 
of  the  Schuyler  home,  outside  and  inside.  She  sat  meekly 
on  the  edge  of  a  haughty  chair,  and  when  tea  was  brought 
by  two  servants  in  a  little  city  of  silver  structures  on  a 
prairie  of  silver,  she  was  so  tremulous  before  the  splendor 
that  she  could  hardly  hold  her  cup.  Her  cup  and  saucer 
fairly  chattered  like  the  teeth  of  fright. 

But  she  did  her  best.  Muriel  was  telling  her  about  the 
exctirsion  to  Ellis  Island  and  the  priceless  wisdom  of  Dr. 
Worthing.    Maryla  asked,  mischievously: 

"Is  he  your  faller?" 

"The  idea!"  Muriel  stammered.  "I  only  met  him  yes- 
terday." 

"Yesterday  is  enough,"  Maryla  taunted,  gaining  new 
self-confidence  at  seeing  the  confusion  of  Muriel.  Muriel 
denied  the  implication,  but  she  did  not  resent  it. 

When  the  tea  things  were  solemnly  deported  she  won- 
dered how  she  might  fiirther  entertain  her  exotic  visitor. 
An  inspiration  came  to  her: 

"You  have  such  taste  in  dress.  Miss  Sokalska.  I  won- 
der if  you'd  Hke  to  see  my  new  frocks?" 

She  said  this  as  Jacob  would  have  asked  another 
millionaire  bibliophile  if  he  would  like  to  see  his  taU  copy 
of  the  first  folio  of  Shakespeare  and  his  imique  Doctor 
Faustus. 

Maryla  answered  by  rising  instantly.  Muriel  led  her 
up-stairs — ^led  Maryla  Sokalska  up  Jacob's  Ladder! 
Muriel's  maid  was  at  the  coimtry  place,  and  Muriel 
had  the  privilege  of  taking  the  gowns  from  the  hangers 
herself.  It  was  like  showing  off  a  fairy  wardrobe, 
lifting  out  yards  of  rainbow,  heaps  of  huge  petals, 
and   skeins  of  mist.     As  the  old  librarian  reveled  in 

178 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

the  pride  of  owning  first  editions  and  works  with  uncut 
leaves,  so  Mary  la  exulted  in  these  unworn  prophecies 
of  fashion. 

Maryla  gave  up  her  effort  at  an  air  of  satisfied  indiffer- 
ence. She  was  ravished  at  the  beauty  of  the  gowns,  and 
said  so.  When  Muriel  went  to  a  dress -closet  to  bring 
out  her  best,  she  glanced  back  and  saw  that  Maryla 
was  hugging  one  of  the  frocks  to  her  breast,  and  nuzzling 
it  with  her  cheek. 

Muriel  came  back  and  said:  "I'm  glad  you  like  that 
gown.    I  want  to  give  it  to  you." 

Maryla  shook  her  head  with  doleful  pride.  Muriel 
pleaded  with  her.  Maryla's  final  answer  was,  "Where 
could  I  wear  it,  now?" 

She  simply  would  not  be  bullied  into  accepting  the 
charity  even  of  such  raiment.  Muriel  said,  "You  could 
wear  it  anywhere  you  would." 

"I'm  a  woiking-goil,"  said  Maryla  in  the  cockney  of 
New  York. 

"Even  so,"  Mtaiel  insisted,  "you  ought  to  work  in 
nice  things.  You  ought  to  be  a  dressmaker.  If  I  got 
you  a  position  as  a  sewing-woman  up-town,  would  you 
accept  it?  You  cotild  earn  ever  so  much  more  than  you 
do  by  sewing  on  those — those  horrid — pants!" 

The  idea  appealed  so  strongly  to  Muriel  that  she  picked 
up  the  telephone  and  called  the  number  of  one  of  her 
dressmakers. 

"Is  that  you,  Mr.  Dutilh?"  she  said.  "This  is  Miss 
Schuyler." 

The  answer  came  back :  ' '  Miss  Schuyler !  It's  high  time 
you  were  reporting.  Why  haven't  you  been  in?  The  new 
importations  are  just  arriving.  There  are  several  marvel- 
ous gowns  you'll  be  sure  to  want." 

"Hush,  you  robber!  There's  just  one  thing  I  want 
to-day.  I  want  you  to  give  a  friend  of  mine  a  job — a  job 
as  sewing-woman." 

When  Miss  Schuyler  expressed  a  wish,  it  was  to  Mr. 

179 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Dutilh's  profit  to  grant  it  at  any  cost.    He  could  always 
slip  the  expense  into  the  next  bill. 

"Anybody  Miss  Schuyler  sends  I'll  employ,  of  course," 
said  Mr.  Dutilh. 

"We'll  be  right  down,"  said  Miss  Schuyler. 

As  they  descended  Jacob's  Ladder,  Jacob  himself 
appeared  at  the  foot  of  it  and  cut  off  their  escape.  He 
had  just  come  in  and  just  learned  of  Muriel's  presence 
in  the  house. 

As  usual  the  torments  of  anxiety  and  aching  love  that 
had  filled  him  while  he  thought  her  lost  were  instantly 
changed  to  rage  when  he  found  her  safe.  When  we  go 
on  a  wild-goose  chase  and  return  exhausted  to  find  our 
pet  at  home  our  first  desire  is  to  wring  the  wild  goose's 
neck.  Jacob  was  so  furious  that  Maryla's  presence  acted 
as  no  restraint. 

"What  in  the  name  of  all  that's  holy  do  you  mean, 
Muriel,  by  scaring  me  to  death  Hke  this?  What's  got 
into  you  that  you  go  stampeding  all  over  the  place?  I 
made  Pamy  take  me  down  to  that  awful  hole  you  went  to 
yesterday.  I  told  him  I'd  fire  him  if  he  ever  did  again. 
I  climbed  the  infernal  stairs  to  that  old  Irish  crone's 
kennel,  and  she  said  that  'never  a  know  she  knew  of 
where  you  was,  only  that  you'd  been  there  while  she  was 
not  within  in  the  house.'  Ugh!  Then  I  went  down 
to  that  Dago  hole,  and  they  didn't  know  your  name,  only 
that  a  beautiful  angel  had  been  there  with  a  beautiful 
doctor. 

"At  the  office  Chivot  told  me  that  he'd  had  a  telephone 
from  the  Assistant  Commissioner  at  Ellis  Island  saying 
that  you  had  turned  the  whole  place  upside  down,  defied 
the  United  States  government,  and  started  an  appeal 
to  Washington.  He  said  you  had  a  young  doctor  with 
you  there,  too — named  Wordsworth  or  something. 

"Who  is  this  fellow?  Where'd  he  come  from?  Where 
did  you  meet  him  ?  What's  the  matter  with  you,  anyway  ? 
Have  you  gone  insane?" 

i8o 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Maryla  wanted  to  run,  but  she  dared  not  pass  the  irate 
dragon.  When  her  father  stormed  she  cowered  and 
obeyed.     What  wotild  Muriel  do? 

Muriel  sat  down  on  the  stairs  and  grinned  from  between 
the  hands  she  rested  her  face  in. 

"You  old  darhng,  did  you  really  miss  me?  You  ought 
to  have  been  a  politician.     You  make  a  wonderfid  speech." 

"How  dare  you!  Your  impudence  is  as  shameless  as 
your  conduct!" 

"Oh,  Daddy  dear,  come  on  out  of  the  Ark.  In  the  first 
place,  I'm  of  age,  and,  in  the  second,  I've  been  on  my 
best  behavior.  And  not  in  half  as  much  danger  as  if  I'd 
been  riding  to  the  hounds.  And  I  haven't  spent  a  peimy 
of  your  money — only  Merry  Perry's." 

"  Miuiel!"  he  thundered,  but  she  cooed  with  the  insolent 
allure  of  a  benevolent  Circe. 

"Now,  Jacob,  you  know  3'ou  never  could  scare  me  or 
bluff  me.  We'll  be  awfully  good  pals  if  you'll  just  be  a 
nice  man.  You're  giving  Miss  Sokalska  an  entirely 
wrong  impression  of  you." 

He  was  purpling  with  ire  and  his  throat  was  swelling 
like  an  alligator's.     She  quelled  him  as  she  rose. 

"I'm  sounding  my  horn,  Daddy — ^honk!  honk!  You 
won't  get  hurt  if  you  stick  to  the  sidewalk." 

Then  she  marched  down  the  stairs  and  swept  past 
him.  What  can  a  father  do  nowadays?  He  may  not 
spank  or  beat  or  imprison  his  daughters;  his  threats  are 
idle.  Jacob  pivoted  on  his  heels  in  a  state  of  helpless 
rage  and  helpless  recognition  that  she  was  a  splendid 
girl  and  he  was  proud  of  her.    He  took  refuge  in  sarcasm: 

"Are  you  going  to  honor  your  mother  and  me  with  any 
more  of  yovir  society  or  are  you  going  to  move  to  China- 
town?" 

"Oh  no,  I'll  go  home  with  you  in  the  yacht.  I've  got 
an  engagement  with  Merry  Perry." 

"Wliat!" 

"  I  have  got  to  report  about  his  money." 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"'Oh,  you  have,  have  you?" 

"Yes.  I'll  meet  you  at  the  yacht  in  half  an  hour.  Come 
alon?,  Miss  Sokalska." 

Maryla,  left  marooned  on  the  stairway,  stole  down  the 
steps  and  sidled  round  Jacob's  bulk,  like  a  cat  getting  past 
a  bulldog.  She  followed  Muriel  out.  Her  head  was  full 
of  new  American  ideas.  In  her  home,  her  father,  though 
he  was  only  a  slave  chained  to  a  sewing-machine,  treated 
his  women  with  patriarchal  authority.  But  the  great 
Jacob  Schuyler  was  a  mere  child  to  his  own  child. 

Muriel,  little  reaHzing  what  seeds  of  revolt  she  had  put 
into  the  head  of  Maryla,  led  her  on  to  yet  greater  danger 
— all  with  the  most  noble  motives. 

When  Muriel  walked  into  the  Dutilh  bviilding  vnth. 
Maryla,  they  were  just  preceded  by  no  less  eminent  a 
lady  than  Winnie  Nicolls's  mother  imder  a  hat  of  still 
greater  eminence.  For  all  her  power,  Mr.  Dutilh  greeted 
her  with  his  usual  extravagance  of  flattery  and  insult: 

"My  God!  take  off  that  lid.  You're  a  sight.  You 
never  got  that  in  my  shop."  He  turned  to  Muriel. 
"She's  a  pretty  woman,  too,  when  she  lets  me  pick  out 
her  things.  But  did  you  ever  see  such  a  bunch  of  tripe 
on  a  human  head?" 

Muriel  was  afraid  to  make  any  answer.  Maryla  was 
aghast  at  his  impertinence,  yet  he  was  to  be  her  rescuer 
from  the  treadmill. 

He  sold  Muriel  a  gown  before  she  could  prevent  him, 
and  she  had  to  close  her  eyes  against  the  others  he  dangled 
before  her. 

Meanwhile  he  was  taking  note  of  Maryla,  appraising 
her  face,  her  figure.  He  called  her  to  look  at  a  hat, 
that  he  might  see  her  walk.    At  length  he  said: 

"My  dear,  you're  far  too  pretty  to  be  stuffed  away  in 
my  sewing-room.  You're  worth  a  lot  more  to  me  out 
here  than  in  there.    How'd  you  like  to  be  a  model?" 

"A  model?"  Maryla  echoed,  feebly. 

182 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Yes;  a  manikin  if  you  prefer.  You  just  sit  around 
here  like  those  other  lazy  hussies. ' '  He  indicated  a  number 
of  languorous  countesses  dawdling  about.  "When  a 
customer  comes  in  you  put  on  the  gown  I  teU  you  to,  and 
simply  walk  up  and  down  and  show  it  off.  Then  some  fat 
old  cow  thinks  she'll  look  as  well  in  it  as  you  do.  And 
we  make  a   sale.    How  does  that  strike  you?    What?" 

It  struck  Maryla  as  a  gift  from  Heaven.  To  spend  her 
days  putting  on  costumes  like  the  woven  dreams  she  saw 
about  her,  and  to  go  sauntering  back  and  forth  in  them 
for  a  few  hours  a  day,  and  to  earn  far  more  so  than  by 
pedaling  the  sewing-machine  up  an  eternal  hillside — this 
was  heaven  already. 

She  accepted  and  promised  to  report  for  duty  the  next 
morning. 

Mr.  Dutilh  had  done  a  double  stroke  of  policy.  He 
had  secured  for  himself  a  needed  employee  and  he  had 
secured  the  rapturous  gratitude  of  Muriel  Schuyler. 

Muriel  sent  Maryla  home  in  a  taxicab,  paying  the 
driver  in  advance  what  he  Hberally  estimated  as  the 
clock-distance. 

Then  she  went  to  the  yacht  to  pacify  her  father,  serene 
in  the  consciousness  that  she  had  done  a  good  day's 
work.  She  could  not  have  dreamed  into  what  a  whirl- 
pool she  had  led  the  feet  of  Maryla. 

While  Muriel  was  transplanting  Maryla  to  Dutilh's 
garden  her  father  was  busy  on  his  own  account,  and 
he  executed  a  master-stroke  with  the  aid  of  the  telephone. 

Muriel  reached  the  yacht  as  she  promised,  and  apolo- 
gized for  her  unfilial  behavior,  blaming  it  on  a  higher  duty. 
Jacob  accepted  the  overttires,  and  peace  was  concluded. 
After  the  hot  and  eager  day,  the  wind  on  the  water  was 
a  benediction,  and  the  sight  of  the  bay  at  home  with  its 
flock  of  yachts  gliding  or  at  rest  was  blessed. 

But  when  the  anchor  splashed  there  was  no  preparation 
for  going  ashore.    Instead,  a  laimch  put  off  from  the  dock 

183 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

and  conveyed  aboard  Muriel's  mother  and  her  maid,  and 
Muriel's  maid,  and  Jacob's  man,  and  a  deal  of  baggage. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  said  Muriel, 

"We're  going  on  a  little  cruise,  my  child,"  said  Jacob, 
"with  an  odious  joviality. 

"But  I  have  an  engagement  ashore — I  have  stacks  of 
engagements." 

"They'll  wait." 

"How  long?" 

"Oh,  we'll  be  back  in  a  few  weeks." 

Her  wild  protests  evoked  only  the  hilarious  laughter 
of  her  father  and  mother,  who  clung  together  like  two  fat 
pirates,  shaken  and  shaking  each  other  with  unmannerly 
glee. 

Muriel  used  all  her  weapons  on  her  father:  threats, 
prayers,  tears,  cajolings,  but  all  in  vain.-  If  he  had  been 
vulnerable,  her  mother  was  not.  She  used  all  those 
•veapons  herself  too  much  to  yield  to  them. 

Beaten  at  every  point,  Muriel  meekly  pleaded,  "May 
T  send  a  wireless  or  two  at  least?" 

"You  will  send  no  wireless." 

Muriel  ordinarily  could  revel  in  a  joke  on  herself,  but 
the  humor  of  being  kidnapped  by  her  own  parents  did 
not  amuse  her.  It  left  too  many  serious  interests  too 
horribly  involved.  But  she  could  not  swim  so  far  as  the 
already  receding  shore. 

Perry  Merithew  waited  all  evening  at  the  Yacht  Club 
for  his  dance  with  Muriel.  His  zealous  anticipations 
sickened  with  delay.  He  did  not  dance  with  Pet  Bettany 
or  her  mother,  though  they  hovered  in  the  offing  like  a 
couple  of  sinister  submarines.  He  was  afraid  of  them 
and  wanted  to  take  counsel  with  Muriel  against  them. 

But  Muriel  did  not  come.  At  length  he  ventured  to 
telephone  her  house,  only  to  receive  the  baffling  word  that 
she  had  gone  on  a  long  cruise  and  had  left  no  message 
for  Mr.  Merithew. 


CHAPTER  XX 

PRETTY  things!  Pretty  things  to  wear,  to  hear,  to 
see,  to  read — fashion,  melody,  art,  drama,  literature. 
And  fashion  by  far  the  most  thrilling  of  them  all  to 
womankind. 

What  prayer  have  they,  these  womanly  women,  more 
fervent  than  this :  to  be  in  style !  to  have  the  body  which 
robes  the  soul  itself  enrobed  in  the  most  delicate  fabrics 
of  the  most  immediate  caprice!  to  give  the  body  a  new 
language,  a  second  vocabulary  and  a  music  outside  its 
own,  and  to  change  the  phrasing  as  often  and  as  much  as 
can  be.  If  the  prayer  is  not  granted  they  are  sometimes 
plucky  and  sometimes  philosophic,  but  they  are  never 
content. 

For  the  savage  a  fresh  sea-shell  or  a  bright  leaf,  blue 
paint,  a  necklace  of  the  teeth  of  dead  foreigners,  the  fur 
of  a  saber-toothed  tiger — ^these  made  a  new  Easter. 
For  the  civilized  woman  a  necklace  composed  of  the 
incysted  worms  of  a  bed  of  oysters,  a  gown  of  numberless 
silkworm  cocoons  luiraveled  and  spun  together  again,  a 
hat  stuck  fiill  of  the  feathers  of  a  shot  bird,  in  winter  a 
robe  made  of  the  qtulted  fleece  of  a  flock  of  unborn  lambs 
trimmed  with  the  patched  fells  of  a  dozen  better  unborn 
skunks — ^those  constitute  a  satisfactory  adornment. 

When  women  decided  that  the  highest  art  is  the  con- 
cealment of  nature  it  was  as  long  a  step  from  animaldom 
as  when  men  learned  to  make  weapons.  It  meant  that 
the  human  hide  should  no  longer  be  a  pelt,  that  it  shoiild 
not  be  blistered  by  the  sun,  scratched  by  briers,  calloused 
and  warted  from  cave  floors.     It  should  become  itself 

185 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

the  finest  fabric  of  all  the  looms.  It  should  be  revealed 
only  in  spots  and  glimpses.  Gradually  costume,  which 
began  as  an  advertisement  of  sex,  developed  like  poster  art 
to  such  a  point  that  it  concealed  what  it  was  supposed  to 
recommend.  Gradually  costume  ceased  to  be  a  device 
to  attract  the  men's  eyes  away  from  other  women,  and 
grew  to  be  a  campaign  to  attract  the  eyes  of  other  women 
away  from  other  women,  and  to  poison  them  with  envy, 
though  it  bankrupted  the  men.  The  enormity  of  this 
trafific  brought  such  men  as  Dutilh  into  big  commercial 
importance,  and  brought  such  girls  as  Maryla  oppor- 
tunities to  act  as  living  show-counters. 

Maryla  Sokalska  had  spent  her  life  in  such  drudgery, 
in  such  squalor,  at  such  close  quarters  with  starvation,  that 
she  had  been  hardly  more  than  a  sleek  and  dim-eyed  mole 
burrowing  in  the  ground  incessantly  for  food  enough  to  go 
on  burrowing.  Then  she  was  haled  up  into  the  full  noon 
sun  and  given  eyes  and  understanding. 

And  now  she  must  scutter  back  to  the  old  mole-hole  and 
tell  the  blind  ones  what  the  rainbow  is  like.  The  worst 
of  it  was  that  the  Sokalskis  were  not  even  good  moles. 

Her  people  were  not  bom  sempsters.  The  grandfather 
was  short-sighted  and  asthmatic,  and  his  sewing  accom- 
plished little  more  than  to  keep  him  out  of  an  old  man's 
mischief. 

Adam,  the  father,  was  tireless,  or,  rather,  he  was  always 
tired,  yet  unresting.  He  had  meant  to  be  a  rabbi,  but 
a  pogrom  drove  him  in  poverty  to  America  and  he  had 
never  got  back  to  his  books.  He  was  bom  to  be  a  scholar 
and  he  read  nothing  but  seams. 

Rosa,  the  mother,  was  all  thumbs,  and  for  ever  \mdoing 
what  she  had  done,  for  ever  breaking  needles. 

Dosia,  the  big  Httle  fat  sister,  was  lazy  and  incompetent ; 
she  had  two  passions,  food  and  play,  and  she  got  httle  of 
either. 

Maryla  would  have  been  skilful  enough  as  a  lacemaker 
or  broiderer,  but  she  abominated  the  manufacture  of 

1 86 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

overalls  for  workmen.  Pasinsky,  the  boarder,  was  a 
dreamer,  and  so  deeply  in  love  with  Maryla  that  his  eyes 
were  usually  on  her  instead  of  the  seams,  and  his  feet 
paused  on  the  treadle  for  long  periods  of  reverie. 

That  was  why  the  Sokalskis  were  poor;  they  were  doing 
cheap  work  without  affection  for  it,  and  the  world  has 
never  paid  well  for  that — and  never  will. 

To  Maryla  the  whole  adventure  would  have  been  a  mere 
fantastic  dream  if  it  were  not  for  the  reality  of  the  taxicab 
carrying  her  home.  The  jolts  and  jounces  of  that  magic 
carpet  would  have  knocked  any  dreamer  out  of  bed. 

As  Maryla  returned,  sliding  backward  from  paradise, 
after  a  peek  in  at  the  doors,  she  hated  her  old  environment 
the  more  furiously  the  nearer  she  approached  it. 

She  was  coming  back  with  something  of  the  mood  of  a 
traveler  who  has  heard  contemptuous  references  to  foreign 
lands  and  has  skimmed  through  them,  finding  them  so 
beautiful,  generous,  and  lovable  as  to  make  contempt 
contemptible. 

The  taxicab  passed'  windows  where  second-hand  ball- 
gowns were  displayed.  Maryla  had  once  longed  for  those 
blatancies.  Now  she  saw  that  they  were  crude  parodies 
of  styles  long  out  of  style.  When  the  cab  moved  slowly 
and  with  incessant  squawking  through  Houston  Street 
she  began  to  recognize  friends  of  hers  whom  yesterday 
she  had  accounted  well-dressed;  now  they  seemed  to  be 
beggars. 

Her  debarkation  from  the  taxicab  was  almost  more  of  a 
sensation  than  the  departure  in  it.  Those  who  had  be- 
lieved then  that  she  had  been  carried  away  by  white- 
slavers  now  assumed  that  she  had  fought  her  way  free  and 
brought  off  the  taxicab. 

Maryla  had  little  to  say  to  the  queries.  She  hurried 
up  the  steps  of  her  own  tenement  so  fast  that  when  she 
threw  open  the  door  she  had  to  fall  back  against  it,  pant- 
ing and  holding  her  heart  in  her  left  hand. 

187 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

The  vision  of  her  caused  dismay  among  the  sewing- 
machinists.  They  checked  their  treadles  and  stared 
over  their  shoulders  like  a  platoon  of  bicyclists. 

Pasinsky  rose  with  such  alarm  that  he  knocked  over  his 
chair. 

"Maryla,  what  you  got  now?"  he  cried.  "A  heart- 
disease?    Yes?" 

"A  job!"  she  panted.  "I  got  a  grand  job  by  rich 
dressmakers.    I  am  a  model." 

There  was  a  beatitude  upon  her  face  that  illimiined  all 
the  others  by  reflection.  Her  father  smiled  to  see  her 
smile;   then  he  asked,  cautiously: 

"Mottels?    Vat  for  a  bitsness  it  is,  dose  mottels?" 

Maryla  explained  the  magic  profession: 

"Miss  Schuyler  takes  me  by  Mr.  Dutilh.  He  woiks 
by  dresses  and  hets.  She  says,  'Give  my  friend  a  job 
sewing.'  He  says,  'You  are  too  pretty,  my  dear,  to  make 
dresses.  You  should  wear  them.'  Yes,  he  said  that. 
So  I'm  goin'  to  put  on  dresses  and  show  them  off  to 
fi-ine  ladies,  and  if  they  like,  they  buy  them  off  me;  if 
they  don't  like,  I  take  off  and  put  on  another  dress  yet. 
All  day  I  am  putting  on  and  taking  off  fine  garments." 

Adam  scented  danger  in  the  enterprise.  His  daughter 
was  to  be  hired  for  her  beauty,  not  for  her  craft  or  in- 
dustry.   It  looked  perilous.    He  said: 

"How  v-iel  Geld  you  get  by  soch  a  fectory?" 

"Twelve  dollars  a  week,  papa!" 

"  Zwolf  dollars  in  one  veek !"  gasped  Adam.  She  nodded 
her  head  vigorously,  and  he  protested:  "Dot  is  not  a 
bitsness;  it  is  a  schwindlie.  All  of  us  here  dim't  got 
zwolf  dollars  a  veek.     How  should  you  got  it?" 

Then  he  eyed  her  with  sudden  suspicion;  a  crafty  look 
went  slowly  across  his  face;  his  lips  parted,  baring  a  big 
rectangular  smile  and  he  reached  out  to  tweak  her  cheek. 

' '  Ach,  du  Kleine!    She's  choking !" 

But  finally  she  convinced  him  that  manna  and  quails 
still  fell  from  heaven,  even  through  ceilings.    With  some 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

misgivings  he  consented  that  she  should  be  permitted 
to  take  the  position,  provided  she  came  straight  home 
evenings  and  brought  home  all  of  her  money. ^  To  this 
she  answered: 

"Of  course.     What  you  think  I  am?" 

She  was  so  happy  that  she  kissed  her  father  and  re- 
sumed her  work  at  the  sewing-machine. 

Her  feet  plied  the  treadles  with  enthusiasm.  She  was 
like  a  young  girl  that  runs  across  a  meadow  whispering 
a  song  into  the  breeze.  Pasinsky,  watching  her,  shook  his 
head.     She  was  running  away  too  fleetly  for  his  pursuit. 

By  and  by  Dosia  murmured,  "Say,  Maryla." 

"Yes." 

"What's  a  swell  house  like?  What's  Miss  Schuyler's 
house  like?" 

"Like  the  new  school-house,  only  with  foiniture  and 
silk  rugs.    And  an  elevator  it's  got." 

"Elevators  is  a  factory,"  sniffed  Dosia,  who  was  far 
too  wise  to  be  duped. 

Maryla  insisted:  "They  have  a  elevator  in  their  house, 
and  stairs,  too — ^marble — really  marble.  And  tea  I  had, 
too." 

' '  Humph !    We  have  tea  here !"  * 

"Not  such  a  tea  like  this  Miss  Schuyler  has." 

"Did  the  lady  cook  it  herself  and  is  the  stove  all  over 
with  solid  gold?" 

"No!  She  cooks  nothing.  Ladies  don't  cook.  She  has 
two  gentlemen  that  make  the  tea  and  bring  it  in — ^two 
big  fallers  like  policemen,  only  one  is  in  a  full-dress  suit. 
And  everything  is  silver  but  only  the  cups.  My  cup  was 
like  silk,  like  silk  with  starch  into  it.  I  cotild  see  my 
fingers  through  it." 

"Sillik  and  silliver!"  sighed  Pasinsky,  studying  the  en- 
raptured reverie  of  Maryla.  "You  got  more  better  right 
as  those  Schuyler  girl  to  have  silhk  and  silliver." 

Maryla  rewarded  him  with  a  smile  of  gratitude  for 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

his  discernment.  But  Adam  glared  at  him  and  motioned 
him  to  keep  silence.  He  did  not  want  such  ideas  put  into 
Maryla'srhead.    As  if  they  were  not  already  there! 

The  next  morning  there  was  nearly  as  much  flutter 
about  getting  the  daughter  of  the  house  ready  for  the 
new  job  as  if  she  were  a  regiment  marching  off  to  war. 
Wlien  the  mobilizing  of  Maryla  was  accomplished  they 
all  wept  over  her,  her  father  most  bitterly. 

She  was  so  beautiful  to  him  that  he  was  afraid 
of  her  beauty  and  for  it.  He  held  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her  forehead.  His  beard  was  bedabbled  with 
his  tears.  Maryla  found  it  thrilling  to  make  her 
father  cry.  Pasinsky's  tears  did  not  get  beyond  his 
eyelashes.  He  wanted  her  and  could  not  buy  her,  and 
now  she  was  to  be  put  in  the  show-wdndow.  Dosia 
and  her  mother  wept  with  pride.  Maryla  kissed  them 
.all  good-by  except  Pasinsky,  who  would  have  relished 
it  most  of  all. 

It  was  lonely  at  home  that  day.  All  the  eyes  had  a 
way  of  reverting  to  the  sewing-machine.  It  looked  for- 
lorn without  Maryla  there  in  the  attitude  that  was  almost 
as  permanent  as  the  outline  of  the  window  or  the  fire- 
escape.  Several  times  she  was  spoken  to  and  it  seemed 
strange  that  she  did  not  answer.  It  was  almost  easier 
to  believe  that  she  was  merely  invisible  than  that  she 
was  actually  absent. 

Now  the  simmering  quartette  of  machines  was  only  a 
trio,  and  made  a  diminished  music.  The  canary-bird 
chirped  repeatedly  and  cocked  his  head,  waiting  for  Maryla 
to  chirp  back  at  him.  Dosia  tried  to  take  her  place,  but 
the  imitation  did  not  satisfy  that  exacting  little  yellow 
critic.  The  very  geraniiim  regretted  Maryla.  Dosia  for- 
got to  water  it,  and  it  drooped  with  the  rest  of  the  family. 

At  half  past  six  Maryla  came  home,  and  was  greeted  like 
an  arctic  explorer  escaped  after  a  year  in  the  ice-floes. 

190 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

First  she  must  lift  her  hat  and  show  off  her  hair.  It 
had  been  elaborately  coiffed.  Rosa  and  Dosia  shrieked 
with  admiration.  Pasinsky  felt  but  did  not  say  that  it  had 
brought  out  an  unsuspected  sensuousness  in  all  her  mien, 
Adam  was  disgusted  and  frightened.  It  was  not  respect- 
able.   He  turned  his  eyes  away. 

Strange!  that  the  arrangement  this  way  or  that  of 
the  excrescent  skeins  on  the  head  could  assume  such 
spiritual  importance  that  one's  judgment  of  another's 
soul  should  be  influenced  by  the  point  at  which  he  draws 
the  comb  to  part  his  hair,  or  the  spots  at  which  she  places 
her  hair-pins  and  establishes  loops. 

Maryla  saw  her  father  averting  his  gaze  as  from  her 
shame.    She  blushed  and  explained: 

"  Mr.  Dutilh  made  me  have  it  so.  It  makes  the  dresses 
look  better." 

But  Adam  groaned,  "It  iss  not  decent!" 

Rosa  tried  to  suppress  him,  but  he  had  resumed  his 
work  again,  hopelessly.  Relieved  of  his  woeful  eyes, 
Maryla  brightened  again  and  lifted  her  skirts  to  show 
that  her  stockings  were  of  silk.  She  revealed  to  the 
women  that  she  had  linen  wear  of  extraordinary  aris- 
tocracy, and  she  made  them  feel  along  her  sleek  sides 
where  the  new  corset,  the  astonishing  envelope  the  women 
wrapped  themselves  in  in  the  fall  of  19 13,  did  its  best  to 
conform  her  anatomy  to  the  shape  of  a  cigar — bust, 
waist,  hips  all  merged  as  far  as  possible  in  one  smooth 
cylinder. 

"Shoes,  too,  I  got,  with  heels — so  high!  I  leave  those 
by  Meesteh  Dutilh's." 

The  appalling  cost  of  all  these  things  implied  a  mort- 
gage on  her  earnings  for  life,  but  she  explained  that  Mr. 
Dutilh  had  furnished  theih  as  part  of  her  equipment, 
for  the  sake  of  Miss  Schuyler. 

She  described  the  gowns  she  had  worn  during  the  day, 
in  details  that  were  gibberish  to  the  men,  but  set  the 
women  squealing  with  vivid  envy.     Adam  had  turned 

191 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

to  listen.  He  was  interested  in  the  fabulous  prices  till 
she  told  him  that  she  had  worn  and  had  seen  sold  one  gown 
that  brought  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  and  con- 
sisted of  next  to  nothing. 

Adam  was  aghast  at  the  price;  it  was  more  than  he 
earned  in  a  year  with  his  family's  help.  He  was  worse 
shocked  at  the  paucity  of  fabric.  He  hated  to  think  of 
Maryla  in  it — or  out  of  it.  She  laughed  at  him  and  told 
him  that  one  of  the  city's  noblest  ladies  had  bought  it 
to  wear  at  the  opera.  The  old  man  blushed  deep  into 
his  beard,  and  mtunbled: 

"I  dim't  Hke  you  should  be  in  soch  a  place.  I  am  gled 
you  come  home  eveninks  by  your  femily." 

"That's  one  trouble,  papa.     I  can't  live  at  home." 

He  looked  as  if  he  could  not  have  heard  her  aright. 

She  explained:  "This  morning  Mr.  Dutilh  talks  to  me 
and  he  says,  'I  should  have  your  name  and  address, 
my  dear' — he  calls  everybody  'my  dear.'  And  I  says, 
'Orchard  Street,'  and  he  says,  'Where  is  that  at?  Brook- 
lyn?' And  I  tell  him  where  it  is  and  he  says,  'My  God!' 
— always  he  says  that — 'You  live  down  there  in  those 
sloms  ?'  he  says.  '  If  my  customers  know  j^ou  Hve  there 
and  wear  their  clothes  they  never  buy  anything  off  me. 
They  come  never  near  again,'  and  he  says,  'It's  too  bad!* 
So  I  says,  'AH  right,  I  go.  I'm  sorry.  What  should  I 
tell  Miss  Schuyler?'  Then  he  jirnips  and  says,  'My  God! 
I  can't  throw  you  out  like  that.  All  you  got  to  do  is 
to  move  up-town  once.  You  get  a  room  up  here,  my 
dear.'  So  that's  what  I  got  to  do.  I  will  come  home 
Simdays — and  often  evenings." 

There  it  was!  There  was  the  bombshell  that  wrecks 
the  home.  The  daughter  was  already  lured  from  the 
shelter;  she  would  fare  the  crowded  ways  alone.  She 
would  become  like  these  modernized  imbeHeving  Jewesses, 
the  taytschke,  who  eat  anything,  whether  it  is  kosher  or 
not,  who  do  not  observe  the  rites,  believe  the  belief,  or 
follow  the  path  of  esteem. 

193 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

With  graver  majesty  than  one  would  have  expected  and 
with  deep  conviction  of  duty,  Adam  made  the  decision; 
renounced  that  wealth  of  twelve  dollars  a  week  and  com- 
manded Maryla  to  give  up  the  Dutilh  post  and  stay  home 
at  her  own  machine.  She  stared  at  him  in  alarm:  "  Papa, 
you  don't  mean  it." 

"  I  mean  it !"  he  said ;  "  I  have  decidet." 

Obediently  Maryla  dropped  to  her  place.  Her  feet  like 
hack-horses  tmder  the  lash  began  to  climb  the  same  old 
hill.  She  sewed,  but  now  with  a  smoldering  suUenness 
that  showed  itself  in  her  anger  at  the  needle  and  her 
brutality  toward  the  helpless  cloth. 

The  morning  was  heartbreaking  to  Maryla.  She  fell 
out  of  a  paradise  of  dreams  upon  the  rough  granite  of 
reality.  In  her  dreams  she  had  been  promenading  with 
satin  and  ermine  and  silver  brocade  about  her.  But 
the  dream  was  done.     A  girl  had  to  obey  her  father. 

Suddenly  she  remembered  Muriel.  Miss  Schuyler  had 
treated  her  great  wealthy  well-dressed  father  like  a 
querulous  child.  Maryla  could  not  laugh  at  her  solemn 
father,  but  perhaps  she  could  defy  him.  There  was 
still  time  to  reach  Dutilh's  for  the  day.  She  made  up  her 
mind.  She  stopped  the  machine,  snapped  the  thread, 
folded  the  completed  trousers  leg,  carried  it  to  the  stack — 
then  confronted  her  father: 

"Papa,  I'm  goin'  woik  by  Meesteh  Dutilh's.  I'm  not 
goin'  woik  here  any  more.  I  come  see  you,  but  never 
will  I  sew  any  more  pents  all  the  time." 

Adam  was  thunderstruck.  This  was  mutiny.  This 
was  America.  This  was  Yankee  corruption  invading  his 
patriarchate.    This  was  worth  stopping  the  machine  for. 

Adam  rose  from  his  place.  He  did  not  rise  very  high. 
He  was  short,  and  his  knees  were  bent  from  his  everlasting 
crouch;  but  he  seemed  as  tall  as  Joshua  bidding  the  stm 
stand  still  upon  Gibeon.  All  the  majesty  he  had  was  his 
authority  and  the  ancient  tradition  back  of  it. 

193 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

•  "Maryla!"  he  thiindered,  raising  his  awful  forefinger, 
"you  dun't  leave  dis  ho'se!    You  hear?    You  dun't  go!" 

But  Maryla  was  bom  in  a  country  where  the  sun  does 
not  stand  still,  where  the  tradition  is  that  tradition  shall 
not  rule. 

She  answered  in  a  mild,  meek,  frightened  tone;  but 
her  heart  was  adamant.  "Yes,  papa,  I  do  go;  and  I  ask 
you,  please,  don't  make  an  excitement." 

"An  excitement,  she  says!"  he  roared.  "She  says, 
'  Dun't  make  an  excitement !'  And  she  spits  in  my  beard; 
she  goes  to  voik  by  dose  Goyim!  I  am  no  more  her  fadder. 
My  home  iss  not  goot  genug  for  such  a  fine  lady  like  her!" 

From  the  next  room  the  sick  and  woimded  Bahnsky 
called  aloud  in  fright:  "Was  ist's — was  ist'sf    Bittel" 

For  his  sake  they  lowered  their  voices.  Americanism 
was  infecting  Adam,  too.  He  was  defied  and  he  could 
not  strike.  He  hated  his  weakness,  but  he  could  only  make 
idle  threats  in  whispers : 

"Maryla,  if  you  go,  you  never  come  beck!" 

"All  right,  papa.  Just  as  you  say.  But  I  got  to  go.  I 
got  to  get  some  life.  I  got  to  see  something  besides  this 
sewing-machine.  And  you  got  a  right  to  help  me,  you 
have." 

"I  got  a  right  to  keep  you  a  goot  gerl,  dat  is  all." 

"I  can  be  good  there.    I  will  be  good." 

"You  begin  to  be  goot  by  to  mock  your  fadder!  You 
are  bat  already.  For  pretty  dresses  and  sillik  stockinks 
gerls  like  you  are  go  on  de  street  yet." 

"Papa!"  Rosa  protested,  frantic  at  seeing  her  husband 
at  war  with  their  child,  "You  should  not  make  such  a 
woids.    Dosia  is  here." 

But  Adam  was  sustained  by  a  sense  of  duty  to  his 
family  and  his  creed. 

Maryla  dreaded  only  to  be  late  to  Dutilh's.  She 
opened  the  door  and,  with  a  fluent  sinuousness,  moved 
round  it  and  was  gone. 

194 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Adam  dropped  to  his  sewing-machine,  and  motioned 
the  others  to  theirs.  He  seemed,  to  himself  at  least,  to 
be  sewing  his  own  grave-clothes,  his  tachrichim;  and  they 
were  stained  with  the  sin  of  the  child  intrusted  to  him, 
for  the  sins  of  the  children  are  visited  also  on  the  parents. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

YOUNG  runaways  do  not  suffer  like  old  left-at-homes. 
Maryla's  gloom  rose  from  her  in  a  black  fog  as 
she  hurried  down  the  steps.  The  noisy,  smelly  street 
made  a  racket  that  was  pleasant  as  a  thing  to  escape. 
The  street-car  on  the  Bowery  came  up  like  a  chariot.  She 
was  smiHng  with  such  anticipation  that  the  conductor 
grinned  and  called  her  "kiddo."  She  administered  a 
stinging  rebuke,  "Don't  you  get  so  fresh!" 

Northward  the  car  groaned,  swerved  into  Fourth  Ave- 
nue, and  emerged  from  the  tunnel  at  the  door-step  of  the 
great  Grand  Central  Station,  that  doorway  to  unimagin- 
able Ispahans  and  Thules.  Then  the  car  wore  round  into 
Madison  Avenue,  a  canon  of  marvelous  hotels  and  shops. 

Maryla  took  on  dignity  and  aristocracy  with  distance. 
She  pressed  the  button  to  stop  the  car  as  if  she  were 
summoning  a  butler.  She  brushed  the  conductor  with 
a  glance  like  the  flick  of  a  contemptuous  fan,  and  he 
said,  respectfully: 

"Mind  the  step,  lady." 

She  marched  across  to  Fifth  Avenue  and  into  Dutilh's 
as  if  she  were  going  there  to  buy  instead  of  to  sell.  But 
once  within,  her  soul  plummeted  to  the  depths  of  meek- 
ness. 

She  was  afraid  of  her  ignorances,  so  many  ignorances  of 
so  many  things.  She  was  afraid  even  to  talk.  Yesterday 
she  had  overheard  one  of  the  models  mimicking  her 
speech.  It  is  a  strange  experience  to  see  oneself  imitated, 
and  Maryla  did  not  relish  it. 

iq6 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

She  determined  to  reform  her  dialect  at  once.  Her 
quick  ear  told  her  that  she  had  been  putting  the  umlaut 
over  the  EngHsh  "a"  and  changing  it  to  a  short  "e,"  as 
in  "understend."  She  could  not  change  the  habit  of 
years  at  once,  and  she  blushed  at  her  relapses  with  the 
shame  of  a  cockney  hearing  another  "h"  let  slip. 

She  tried  to  solve  the  unfathomed  mystery  of  dis- 
tinction between  ladies  and  gentlemen  and  those  who 
are  not.  She  thought  she  had  it  once,  when  she  said 
to  herself  that  it  was  the  difference  between  those  who 
were  haughty  because  they  came  to  buy  and  those  who 
were  humble  because  they  were  there  to  sell.  But  other 
customers  came  in  who  were  not  ladies,  for  all  their 
wealth  and  insolence.  And  Dutilh  was  not  humble, 
though  he  tried  to  sell,  and  he  was  not  insolent,  for  all  his 
impudence.  She  decided  that  he  was  a  gentleman — or  a 
quaint  mixture  of  gentleman  and  lady. 

The  study  of  morals  engaged  her  next.  Why  did  she 
instantly  resolve  that  certain  of  the  girls  and  certain  of  the 
customers  were  bad  women?  It  was  not  a  matter  of 
beauty  or  language.  One  or  two  were  brazen  and  smoked 
Dutilh's  cigarettes  and  swore  and  wanted  the  lowest  cut 
in  gowns;  yet  she  felt  them  to  be  reliable  and  staunch  in 
honor.  Others  were  shy  and  sweet  and  prudish,  yet 
Maryla  felt  that  they  were  as  sly  as  shy;  treacherous, 
lovers  of  the  dark.  And  some  were' brazen  and  seemed 
vicious,  and  some  were  shy  and  seemed  virtuous.  She 
could  make  no  rules.  This  up-town  world  was  frightfiilly 
complicated. 

She  had  a  more  immediate  problem.  Where  was  she  to 
live?  She  consulted  the  other  models.  She  was  a  for- 
eigner among  them.  They  were  as  various  as  womankind 
and  she  was  afraid  of  them  all.  She  picked  out  the  most 
innocent  and  unassuming  of  them,  a  girl  called  Fay  Quincy. 

Fay's  innocence  departed  when  she  spoke.  Her 
mouth  was  cruel  and  cunning.  She  sneered  at  cheap 
boarding-houses,    and   that   afternoon   when   the   shop 

197 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

dosed  Maryla  saw  her  step  into  an  automobile.  She 
thought  she  saw  a  man  in  it. 

The  only  girl  Maryla  dared  not  ask  was  a  great  animal 
of  slithy  attitudes  and  gaudy  lips.  Her  name  was  Elise 
Addison.     Elise  volunteered  her  own  address. 

Maryla  accepted  her  advice  with  trepidation,  wonder- 
ing what  she  should  find.  She  found  a  poor  old  landlady 
with  a  fanatic  kindliness,  who  gave  her  boarders  more 
than  she  could  afford  and  was  sustained  in  her  poverty 
by  an  illusion  that  she  had  once  known  luxury.  Also, 
Elise  had  a  sick  mother  who  kept  her  straight  by  the 
despotism  of  the  feeble. 

Maryla's  room  was  only  three  flights  up.  It  was  what 
is  known  as  a  hall  bedroom — ^the  end  of  a  narrow  hall  cut 
off  by  a  door.  The  bed,  the  bureau,  a  chair,  and  a  ward- 
robe left  little  room  for  Maryla.  But  it  was  all  hers! 
There  were  no  eyes  to  dodge,  no  casual  glances  to  fear. 
She  did  not  have  to  undress  as  she  did  at  home,  using 
part  of  her  costimie  as  a  screen  while  she  removed  another 
part;  slipping  her  nightgown  over  her  head  to  hide  the 
departure  of  her  skirts. 

Mr.  Pasinsky  had  been  considerateness  itself,  but  his 
very  back  had  seemed  to  be  armed  with  eyes,  and  there 
had  been  immodesty  in  the  dread  that  he  might  look 
round,  although  he  never  did. 

Now  Maryla  had  a  cell  of  her  own,  a  door  with  a  lock 
on  it,  and  the  key  for  herself.  She  had  acquired  solitude. 
That  is  an  epoch-making  achievement  in  any  life. 

More  marvelous  still,  there  was  a  bath-room  next 
to  Maryla's  room.  It  was  not  necessary  to  send  the 
men  out  to  the  street  when  she  wanted  to  climb  into  the 
wash-tub  and  launder  herself.  There  was  a  special  tub 
devoted  exclusively  to  bathing!  It  was  so  long  that 
one  could  actually  extend  oneself  in  the  water!  And 
the  water  was  lavishly  copious  and  thrillingly  hot,  tmless 
some  of  the  other  boarders  beat  Maryla  to  the  tub. 

Once  she  was  there  and  locked  in,  she  was  safer  than 

198 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

Susanna,  and  she  could  lie  at  length  in  a  circumambtence 
of  water  like  a  sultana  in  a  marble  pool.  She  could  bathe 
her  very  soul  in  Narcissal  luxury.  She  was  proud  to  be 
alive  now.  It  was  glorious  to  be  rich,  to  work  no  more 
than  ten  hours  a  day,  to  live  in  a  magnificent  up-town 
boarding-hotise's  hall  bedroom. 

And  yet  even  here  discontent  could  thrive.  Alas  for 
human  insatiabiUty!  This  lotos-eater's  existence  did  not 
bring  a  permanent  satisfaction.  It  was  rapturous  to 
spend  one's  days  in  putting  on  the  finest  costumes  of  the 
supreme  fashion-contrivers.  But  she  could  not  wear  them 
home.  She  had  to  see  them  sold  to  other  women  or  put 
away  for  to-morrow's  sale. 

And  loneliness  took  an  increasing  share  in  her  discon- 
tent. Everybody  else  seemed  to  have  some  place  to  go, 
somebody  to  call  on,  or  somebody  coming  to  call.  Maryla 
was  either  afraid  or  disdainful  of  the  boarding-house 
inhabitants.  She  had  no  money  to  spend.  She  grew 
fearfully  homesick,  but  she  could  not  go  home.  She  had 
nothing  to  do  but  wait  till  to-morrow  brought  its  own 
discontents. 

She  hastened  through  all  the  strata  of  a  girl's  transfor- 
mation into  womanhood  in  a  few  days.  In  a  few  hours  she 
had  leaped  to  the  consciousness  of  beauty  and  of  her  own 
equipment.  She  realized  the  importance  of  having  a  self 
and  of  exploiting  it  with  skill  and  poise. 

Her  beauty  was  of  the  tropic  sort,  fierce  but  sad,  like 
the  luscious  melancholy  of  a  summer  afternoon.  There 
was  an  almost  morose  rebeUion  about  it.  She  had  the 
making  of  one  who  woiild  never  know  contentment  for 
more  than  a  little  while.  She  was  doomed  to  passionate 
longings,  frenzies  of  joy  in  possession,  then  speedy  weari- 
ness, and  a  sudden  infatuation  for  something  else — ^for 
something  that  seemed  better  because  it  was  beyond. 

She  had  been  enraptured  at  the  thought  of  rest  and 
solitude  of  evenings.  Already  she  was  tired  of  her 
solitude,  weary  of  her  boarding-house. 

199 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

The  trade  of  changing  her  clothes  still  held  her;  it 
had  grown,  indeed,  upon  her.  But  now  her  grief  was  that 
she  could  not  keep  one  of  the  endless  series  for  herself. 

Dutilh  would  lay  over  her  arm  a  gown  that  she  would 
have  sold  her  soul  for  if  she  could  have  found  a  sovil- 
buyer.  She  would  step  into  it,  or  lower  it  over  her  head, 
and  walk  out  into  the  showroom,  taking  aristocracy  from 
the  gown.  Shortly  afterward  she  must  retreat  to  the 
dressing-room  and  take  off  the  splendor,  and  stand  in  her 
shift  till  another  tissue  was  brought  or  until  she  was 
ordered  to  get  back  into  her  own  shoddy  togs. 

Eve  had  exhausted  Eden,  all  except  the  forbidden  tree. 
And  then  Perry  Merithew  drifted  into  Dutilh's  shop. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

UNDER  the  spell  of  the  remembered  dance  with 
Muriel,  and  the  fantastic  emotions  of  decency  she 
had  inspired  him  with,  Perry  had  neglected  his  expensive 
playmate,  Aphra  Shaler.  He  had  neglected  her  shame- 
fully, she  said. 

Finally  she  had  summoned  him  and  wept  before  him 
till  he  was  convinced  that  he  was  a  heartless  monster. 
To  atone  for  his  neglect  he  invited  her  to  visit  Atlantic 
City.     She  wailed  that  she  had  nothing  to  wear. 

Me  invited  her  to  come  with  him  to  Dutilh's  and  see 
if  they  could  find  anything  fit  for  her  loveliness.  Aphra's 
tears  dried  with  almost  audible  immediateness. 

Dutilh  greeted  her  with  the  homage  due  her  genius  for 
extracting  whole  trousseaux  from  foolish  men's  pocket- 
books.  Perry  had  planned  to  buy  her  one  gown  and  let 
Dutilh  wait  for  his  money. 

Aphra  reveled  in  the  new  styles  as  if  they  were  made  of 
catnip.  Her  hair  was  at  that  time  in  its  auburn  phase,  and 
while  Aphra  was  in  a  dressing-room  trying  on  a  Cubist 
insanity  from  Paris,  Dutilh  picked  out  another  for  her  in- 
spection. He  selected  Maryla  to  march  forward  in  it, 
since  she  was  nearer  the  general  hue  of  Aphra  than  any  of 
his  other  walking-ladies. 

And  so  Maryla  arrived  within  the  ken  of  Perry  Meri- 
thew. 

With  her  arms  extended  and  her  fingers  posed  according 

"^  aoi 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

to  the  formula,  the  tip  of  the  thtmib  touching  the  tip  of 
the  second  finger  affectedly,  she  went  undulantly  up  and 
down. 

Perry  had  begun  to  realize  that  he  was  being  taken  in. 
He  had  voliinteered  Aphra  one  new  gown  as  a  peace- 
offering.  He  had  already  been  "run  up  the  pole"  for 
three;  Aphra  was  putting  on  another,  and  here  was  stiU 
one  more  walking  past  him.  Aphra  seemed  to  change  her 
personality  with  each  change  of  gown,  but  Perry  was 
intolerant  of  all  the  Aphras. 

His  enthusiasm  suffered  an  abrupt  chill.  He  looked 
upon  Maryla  with  resentful  eyes  that  suddenly  wakened 
to  her  dreamy  beauty.  She  and  her  gown  seemed  to  have 
been  created  together.  To  his  spoiled  soul  there  was 
something  quaint  and  foreign,  something  poignantly 
beautiful  about  her. 

Seeing  that  Dutilh  was  at  a  distance  hunting  for  further 
wares  to  tempt  Aphra,  he  beckoned  Maryla  closer,  and 
murmured  in  his  most  amiable  tone: 

"Do  you  know,  my  dear  young  lady,  that  you  are  as 
pretty  as  can  be?  Yes,  sir,  you're  the  prettiest  thing  I've 
seen  in  ages." 

"Why,  thenk  you!"  said  Maryla  with  the  deference 
proper  to  an  important  customer  and  with  a  ferocious 
heart-fluttering  on  her  own  account. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that  gown  you  have  on?" 

"I  love  it,"  said  Maryla,  as  a  loyal  saleswoman  must, 
and  with  a  deep  personal  conviction. 

"  I'll  buy  it  for  you,  if  you'll  wear  it." 

"I — I  don't  imderstend,"  Maryla  whispered,  feeling 
swoony. 

"I'U  explain  myself  later,"  he  said. 

Neither  of  them  had  noticed  that  Aphra  had  emerged 
from  concealment,  blatant  in  a  new  evening  gown  which 
Dutilh  was  pinning  up  here  and  letting  down  there. 

"How  do  you  like  this,  dearie?"  Aphra  had  said.     She 

202 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

said  it  twice  before  either  Perry  or  Maryla  realized  that 
she  had  spoken. 

If  Aphra  had  been  less  e'kcited  over  her  own  beauty  she 
might  have  noted  the  confusion  she  caused  and  observed 
the  birth  of  rivalry. 

Maryla  was  dazed,  but  not  too  dazed  to  realize  that  a 
pleasant  conspiracy  was  afoot  and  that  Aphra  was  not 
"in  on  it." 

She  had  no  idea  of  Perry  Merithew's  previous  existence. 
If  she  had  ever  heard  his  name,  it  had  made  no  impression 
on  her.  She  did  not  know  it  now,  Maryla  knew  only 
that  Perry  Merithew  was  attractive  to  see  and  that  he 
offered  her  the  way  to  own  a  handsome  gown.  Those  were 
enough  to  earn  him  her  courtesy.  And  a  kind  of  pleading 
command  in  his  voice  and  smile  was  enough  to  earn  him 
her  obedience. 

What  she  may  have  thought  of  Aphra  is  imcertain. 
When  Aphra,  after  trying  in  vain  to  wheedle  any  more 
costumes  out  of  Perry,  retired  to  take  off  the  latest  dress 
she  had  tried  on.  Perry  beckoned  Maryla  near  again. 

The  other  models  were  making  parades  before  their 
customers.  They  were  not  aware  of  Merry  Perry's 
surreptitious  dealings.     In  an  undertone  he  said: 

"What  time  do  you  finish  here,  my  dear?" 

"At  five  o'clock,  sir,"  Maryla  answered,  wonderingly. 

"At  five  o'clock,  eh?  Well,  look  here,  my  pretty  child, 
at  five  o'clock  I'll  be  at  the  comer  above  in  my  automo- 
bile; it's  a  limousine — of  a  hunter-green  color;  you  can't 
miss  it.  I'll  wait  for  you.  When  you  come  along,  you 
just  step  in  and  we'll  have  a  little  spin  and  a  little  talk. 
What  do  you  say?    Will  you?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Maryla. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

MARYLA  told  none  of  the  other  models  what  had 
happened.  She  went  to  the  dressing-room  and  took 
off  the  beautiful  gown.  She  caressed  it  and  brooded  over 
it.  It  was  to  be  hers!  She,  too,  was  to  possess  festival 
attire ! 

What  did  it  matter  how  much  it  cost?  She  had  the 
price  to  pay!  Those  women  out  there  should  not  be  the 
only  ones  to  wear  such  things.  She  should  not  slink  on 
for  ever  shabbily  through  the  world.  A  man's  business  is 
to  get  money;  a  woman's  business  is  to  get  finery.  She 
was  no  longer  to  be  a  bankrupt.     Success  was  hers. 

She  had  endtired  such  torment  as  the  bank- teller  en- 
dures who  juggles  wealth  in  bundles  and  cannot  pay  his 
rent.  Now  she  would  embezzle.  All  the  fierce,  defiant 
arguments  and  philosophies  that  sustain  the  thief  and  the 
outlaw  surged  up  in  her  soul. 

She  had  a  vague  notion  of  the  price  she  would  be  ex- 
pected to  pay.  But  that  neither  alarmed  her  nor  charmed 
her;  it  remained  vague  in  the  back  room  of  her  brain. 
The  thing  that  fired  her  soul  was  the  fact  that  luxury 
had  come  within  her  reach  at  last ;  adventure  and  romance 
were  established  in  her  history. 

There  were  several  hours  to  be  passed  over  before  she 
was  free.  She  dressed  and  posted  up  and  down  in  other 
clothes  for  other  customers,  but  with  less  humility  than 
before;  for  now  she  too  had  a  Dutilh  gown  of  the  latest 
model.     She  had  also  a  cavalier. 

When  closing-time  came  she  was  ready  to  go  while 

204 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Elise  was  still  crouched  over  her  street  shoes  with  a  but- 
ton-hook. 

"Ain't  you  waitin'  for  me,  Mareel?"  said  EUse. 

"Not  to-night.  I  gotta — got  to — to  do  some  shop'n' — 
shopping.     G'by." 

She  hurried  out,  followed  by  eyes.  She  walked  to 
the  comer.  She  was  not  sure  just  what  a  limousine  was, 
but  she  saw  a  very  large  shiny  taxicab  at  the  curb,  and 
it  was  dark  green.  Her  heart  shot  into  a  gallop.  She 
walked  by  and  could  not  look  in.  A  voice  came  from 
the  depths: 

"Oh,  there  you  are, my  child." 

A  hand  opened  the  door,  but  no  foot  appeared.  She 
turned  Hke  a  puppet  and  saw  Merithew  beckoning  her. 
He  did  not  get  out,  but^he  was  not  used  enough  to  chivalry 
to  notice  the  difference.  She  got  in.  The  car  rolled  away 
without  command,  in  Arabian  obedience. 

So  this  was  a  limousine!  And  now,  at  last,  she  was  in 
one.  It  was  twice  as  nice  as  the  car  that  Fay  Qmncy  got 
into  of  evenings. 

A  few  days  ago  she  would  have  thought  that  a  limou- 
sine was  either  a  kind  of  fruit  or  a  new  cut  of  dress.  Now 
she  knew.  Limousines,  it  seems,  are  hall  rooms  on  wheels, 
only  they  are  all  over  with  upholstery,  and  they  have 
bouquetfe  of  flowers  in  vases  hung  on  the  walls. 

Perry  looked  at  Maryla  in  a  way  that  put  all  flattery 
and  hospitality  into  a  glance  like  a  hand-clasp.  And  he 
said,  brilliantly,  "Well,  my  dear,  you  kept  your  promise, 
didn't  you?" 

Her  reply  was  equally  brilliant:  "Yes  sir." 

He  took  the  flowers  from  the  vase.  Their  stems  were 
wrapped  in  tin-foil,  and  a  pin  was  stuck  on  them. 

"May  I  ask  you  to  accept  these?"  he  said.  She  seized 
them  avidly.  Her  joy  was  her  thanks.  He  watched  her 
pinning  them  over  her  heart.  At  length  he  said,  "Would 
it  be  asking  too  much  if  I  asked  your  name?" 

20S 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Maryla,"  she  said. 

She  was  going  to  tell  her  other  name,  but  suddenly 
she  realized  that  this  might  not  enhance  her  in  his  eyes. 

"Maryla  what?"  he  said. 

"Just  only  Maryla,"  she  said. 

"Aren't  we  cautious!"  he  laughed.  "What  a^  we — 
Russian?" 

"American — by  Polish." 

"Oh,"  said  Perry.  Polish  was  picturesque.  "Do  you 
know  my  name?"  he  said. 

"No,  sir." 

"I  am  Mr.  Brown.     Mr.  Just  Only  Brown." 

"Thank  you,  Meesteh  Brown,"  she  said,  delighted  by 
the  irresistible  compliment  of  quotation. 

Perry  tried  desperately  to  find  something  more  to  say, 
and  accomplished  only,  "Been  a  model  long?" 

Maryla  checked  this  truth  also  on  the  Hntel  of  her  lips. 
She  remembered  that  Dutilh  had  almost  discharged  her 
because  she  came  from  where  she  came  from.  If  she 
confessed  to  being  a  debutante  in  the  model  class,  she 
would  have  to  explain  how  Miss  Schuyler  had  found  her 
in  those  slimis. 

She  answered  his  "How  long?"  with  a  careless,  "Oh, 
quite  some  time." 

This  satisfied  him,  and  she  did  not  mention  Mtuiel's 
name.  Nor  did  he.  He  never  dreamed  that  Muriel  had 
brought  Maryla  into  his  sphere  of  influence,  nor  did  Maryla 
dream  that  Muriel  knew  him. 

The  car  sHd  along  the  Avenue  as  if  it  were  a  royal 
sleigh.  When  they  turned  into  Central  Park  Maryla 
found  it  beautiful  beyond  remembrance.  She  saw  it  with 
different  eyes. 

When  she  saw  it  first  with  Muriel  she  had  been  unable 
to  recover  from  her  first  view  of  Fifth  Avenue's  one  long 
shop-window.  Now  she  was  used  to  the  window.  She 
had  been  one  of  its  displays. 

Now  she  was  with  a  gentleman.     The  sunset  senti- 

206 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

mentalism  was  upon  her.  She  was  in  a  mood  for  trees 
and  their  foHage,  for  the  graceftil  attitudes  of  roadways, 
the  bliss  of  twiHt  air. 

Her  heart  gave  back  an  aeolian  music  to  the  breath 
of  the  world.  She  quivered  now  with  the  satisfaction  of 
fine  cushions,  of  glossy  enamel,  the  pulse  of  the  car's 
speed,  the  pride  of  outrunning  another  car.  There  was 
a  rapture  in  the  mere  swerve  around  another  motor  or  a 
comer;  an  ecstasy  in  a  sudden  arrest  to  avoid  a  collision 
or  a  murder. 

It  was  miraculous  to  be  seated  with  this  fine  gentle- 
man in  this  little  magic  room  that  ran  about  among  trees 
and  lakes  and  a  series  of  paradises.  There  were  so  many 
rich  people  in  the  world,  too;  such  countless  motors  of 
all  shapes  and  sizes.  But  none  so  fine  as  hers.  Along 
the  sky-line  of  the  reservoir  men  and  women  rode  by  in 
jiggly  silhouette;  it  was  fimny  to  see  the  daylight  between 
the  saddles  and  the  riders. 

Maryla  exclaimed:  "Look  at  those  ladies  riding  those 
horses!  They  got  no  skoits  on  over  their  pents!  And 
the  policeman  on  horseback  looking  right  at  them!  And 
not  arresting  them.     Isn't  it  awful!" 

Perry,  who  did  not  approve  of  riding-breeches,  agreed 
that  it  was.  There  were  carriages,  too,  some  of  them  very 
stately;  the  varnished  horses  seemed  insufferably  con- 
ceited. On  the  high  front  seat  of  one  victoria  sat  two 
lords  in  uniform,  and  back  of  them  sat  two  old  ladies. 

"Are  those  ladies  the  wives  of  those  gentlemen?"  said 
Maryla. 

"Not  officially,"  said  Perry. 

He  was  -fascinated  by  her  ceaseless  raptures  over  this 
tiresome  old  park  drive  that  he  had  taken  incessantly  since 
he  had  first  taken  it  in  his  mother's  lap.  He  was  refreshed 
by  Maryla's  fresh  vision  of  ancient  things. 

She  was  like  a  child  bom  full-grown.  She  was  not 
afraid  to  like  what  she  saw,  nor  to  say  so.  She  was  not 
afraid  to  be  grateful. 

207 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Aphra  Shaler  and  Pet  Bettany  and  most  of  the  women 
he  knew  seemed  to  feel  that  if  they  expressed  too  much 
satisfaction  with  his  gifts  he  would  think  he  had  done 
enough. 

He  resolved  to  take  Maryla  to  many  parks.  After 
Central  Park  they  soared  up  to  Momingside  Park,  and 
through  a  dozen  others. 

And  so  they  reached  the  destination  he  had  planned, 
with  Maryla  in  a  state  of  complete  enchantment.  They 
had  traversed  miles  on  miles  of  winding  roads  and  ave- 
nues strung  wdth  parks  like  blocks  of  malachite.  Maryla 
could  not  believe  that  all  the  world  held  so  much  grace 
and  splendor.  Perry  had  not  complicated  the  hypnotism 
with  any  attempt  at  flirtation  or  cotirtship.  He  had 
studied  her,  and  encouraged  her  delight.  He  neither 
corrected  her  mistakes  nor  patronized  her. 

She  felt  amazingly  at  ease  with  him,  old  friends  in  an 
hour.  At  length  when  a  swerve  of  the  car  flung  her 
against  him  she  ceased  to  edge  away;  and  when  he  took 
her  hand  and  held  it,  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  she 
should  resist  or  resent. 

They  passed  many  inns  of  more  or  less  attractive  de- 
meanor. If  Aphra  had  been  with  him  she  would  have 
selected  the  Abbey  or  Claremont,  alleging  the  view  as  her 
excuse  and  rather  considering  the  price. 

Perry  was  afraid  of  Maryla's  table  technic.  He  had 
no  scruples  against  being  seen  in  evil  company;  but  he 
had  a  horror  of  gauchery.  He  had  feared  that  if  he  took 
her  to  a  restaurant  of  degree  she  might  make  some  slip 
that  would  amuse  a  waiter. 

He  had  thought  it  all  out.  He  had  provided  the 
properties  for  his  little  drama.  He  knew  his  New 
York  well  enough  to  know  of  a  secluded  spot  where 
there  was  an  abundance  of  scenery  and  a  paucity  of 
observation. 

His  chauffeur  stopped,  according  to  earher  instructions, 
outside  Fort  Washington  Park,  the  dilapidated,  neglected 

208 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

spot  where  in  the  early  days  of  the  Revolution  Lords 
Howe,  Comwallis,  and  Percy,  and  Knuyphausen's  con- 
script Hessians  had  stormed  Fort  Washington  and  cap- 
tured Magaw  and  two  thousand  patriots  while  George 
Washington,  on  the  Palisades  across  the  river,  watched 
the  slaughter  of  his  men  and  wept. 

Perry  Merithew  knew  little  of  Washington,  and  Mary  la 
knew  less,  and  there  was  no  reminder  of  a  battle-field  in 
the  woods.  Groden,  the  chauffeur,  took  from  the  trunk- 
rack  of  the  car  a  large  hamper  and  carried  it  down  the 
path  and  into  the  park. 

It  was  a  shabby  park,  discouraged  with  dust  and  be- 
grimed with  smoke  from  the  occasional  trains  that  shoot 
unseen  through  a  narrow  gorge.  But  to  Maryla  it  was 
wonderland.     To  Perry  it  was  seclusion. 

Companies  of  towering  whitewood-trees  stood  slenderly 
about.  Paths  wound  through  the  ragged,  unkempt 
grasses,  littered  in  spots  with  old  orange-peels  and  paper 
bags,  the  disjected  relics  of  former  picnics.  Rocks 
sprawled  among  the  weeds.  Across  the  gorge  were  other 
trees.  Through  foliage  frames  were  vignettes  of  the 
mighty  river  and  the  solemn  cliffside  opposite. 

Perry  asked  Maryla  to  choose  her  own  table,  and  she 
ran  from  nook  to  nook  like  a  child  let  out  of  school.  At 
last  she  chose  a  little  plateau  in  the  lee  of  a  slanting 
boulder,  and  there  the  impatient  Groden  set  down  his 
hamper. 

There  were  flowers — a  few — very  proper  ones  that 
kept  early  hours.  They  were  already  closing  for  the 
night. 

Maryla  ran  about  picking  them,  bending  like  a  flower 
stem  in  the  wind  and  laughing  in  little  fluty  tones  that 
amused  the  drowsy  birds  gathering  in  the  hope  of  crumbs 
and  singing  for  their  supper. 

"How  many,  many  flowers  there  are!"  Maryla  said. 
"Millions  there  are.  And  me  so  proud  of  my  one  little 
geranium.     It's  a  pity  these  should  be  wasted.     They 

209 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

should  grow  in  town.  What  country  is  this  we  are  in 
now?" 

"This  is  New  York  City  still,"  said  Perry,  indulgently. 

"Always  New  York!"  she  gasped.  "What  a  wonder- 
ful city.  And  it  has  birds  in  it!  I  have  a  bird  at  home. 
Listen  to  those  little  fellers!"  She  looked  up  into  the 
branches.  "Hallo!  hallo!  little  feUer!  go  on,  sing  some 
more  yet.  See  the  fat  one!  He's  goin'  to  bust  if  he  don't 
watch  out,  from  singing  so  hard.  My  poor  little  bird  is 
into  a  cage.  When  I  go  home  I'll  let  him  free.  There 
they  go.     Good-by,  little  birds!    Good  luck!  good  luck! 

"What  river  is  that?  The  Hudson?  Oh,  such  a  big 
river!  Pasinsky  says  it  goes  to  the  sea.  Did  you  ever 
see  the  sea?" 

Perry  modestly  admitted  this  distinction.  She  shook 
her  head  in  awe  of  him. 

"I  didn't  know  the  world  was  such  a  beautiful  city. 
It  must  have  been  some  place  like  this  where  Moses  was 
when  Yahveh  lifted  him  up  to  a  high  place.  I  tell  you 
a  person  had  ought  to  be  terrible  good  in  as  beautiful  a 
world,  don't  you  think?" 

Merithew  parried  this  imexpected  and  unwelcome  con- 
clusion with  one  from  his  own  creed.  "A  person  had 
ought  to  be  happy  in  such  a  beautiful  world." 

"But  they  couldn't  be  happy  if  they  didn't  be  good, 
cotdd  they?" 

"Well,  I've  never  been  good,  but  I've  usually  been 
happy." 

"Oh,  you!  You  are  the  best  man  that  ever  was.  So 
kind  to  me.     I  can't  understend — understand  it." 

"  That's  selfishness ;  it  makes  me  happy  to  be  with  you." 

"Does  it!— truly?" 

Perry  could  have  said  more,"  but  Groden  was  every- 
where; and  Groden's  look  was  annoying.  He  had  taken 
from  the  hamper  a  linen  cloth  and  spread  it  on  the  grass, 
and  set  out  plates  and  dishes  and  silver.  There  were 
split  chickens  and  salad  and  sweets,  hot  coffee  in  a  vacuimi 

2IO 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

container  and  cold  water  in  another,  and  two  little  bottles 
with  gilded  necks  in  a  small  bucket  of  ice. 

Maryla  loved  nature,  but  art  was  nature  plus  humanity, 
and  she  was  recalled  from  the  landscape  by  the  wizardry 
of  that  basketed  feast.  Groden  moved  about  in  ironic 
silence.  There  was  no  noise  except  the  pleasant  clink  of 
plates  and  silver. 

When  he  had  set  the  board,  Merithew  told  him  to  take 
the  car  to  the  Abbey  and  get  his  own  dinner;  then  to 
come  back  and  wait  outside  the  park. 

Groden  vanished  in  the  wilderness  and  seemed  to  take 
a  load  off  Merithew's  mind.  Perry  regained  youth  from 
Maryla's  youthfulness  and  motioned  her  to  a  place,  then 
dropped  to  the  ground,  Turk  fashion,  at  her  side. 

He  tossed  her  a  napkin,  whose  sheerness  gave  her  a 
thrill  of  delight.  She  tucked  it  under  her  chin,  and  when 
he  offered  her  a  plate  of  roasted  chicken  she  took  a  drum- 
stick in  her  fingers  and  made  ready  to  gnaw. 

Then  to  her  horror  she  saw  that  Perry  had  not  tucked 
his  napkin  under  his  chin,  but  had  set  it  on  his  knee.  As 
secretly  as  she  could  she  drew  hers  from  her  throat  and 
folded  it  back  and  put  it  on  her  lap. 

He  parted  his  chicken  with  a  knife  and  fork  and  she 
corrected  her  own  attack  to  conform.  She  began  to 
crisscross-cut  her  lettuce  with  her  knife  and  fork  till  she 
saw  that  he  dispensed  with  the  knife.  Then  she  tried 
to  mimic  him,  but  the  lettuce  was  elusive  and  she  had 
to  himt  it  all  across  her  plate  and  over  the  edge  and  back 
again. 

The  sky  grew  darker  and  warmer  in  color.  The  west 
was  leagues  of  roses. 

Perry  twisted  the  wire  from  one  of  the  little  bottles  and 
unscrewed  the  cork.  An  eager  froth  came  cluttering  forth 
into  the  glass  he  held.  He  passed  it  to  Maryla,  and 
filled  himself  a  glass,  raised  it,  and  said: 

"Here's  to  your  big  eyes.  Miss  Just  Only  Maryla." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  she  giggled. 

211 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"But  you're  not  drinking." 

She  put  the  glass  to  her  lips  and  started  back  before  the 
tiny  bombardment. 

"What  is  it?"  she  said. 

"Champagne." 

"I  don't  think  I'd  better  take  any  tshempen.  Papa 
might  not  like  it." 

"Papa  isn't  here.     This  is  my  party." 

"Thenk  you,  but  better  I  didn't." 

"To  please  me." 

"Well,  to  please  you."  She  closed  her  eyes  and 
braved  a  sip,  only  to  recoil  from  the  brim  with  a  grimace. 
"Ugh!  it  tastes  Hke  a  paper  of  needles." 

"It  improves  with  acquaintance.     Try  again." 

"Yes,  sir — ^if  you  say  so.  You  should  tell  me  when  to 
stop."  She  took  another  sip.  Already  it  was  better,  and 
a  look  of  regret  came  into  his  eyes. 

"Shall  I  take  more?"  she  asked,  expecting  assent. 

"No,"  he  said,  and  took  the  glass  from  her  and  poured 
it  on  the  ground.  He  was  amazed  at  himself  and  said, 
"I'll  empty  mine — ^here."     He  quaffed  it  off. 

They  talked  as  they  scoiired  their  plates  in  extravagant 
felicity. 

When  they  had  made  a  great  feast  of  the  slender  fare 
she  folded  up  the  things  and  packed  them  in  the  hamper. 
He  smoked  and  watched  her  and  found  her  singularly 
graceful,  singularly  interesting. 

Through  the  final  crimson  a  sailboat  almost  becalmed 
was  drifting  like  a  huge  white  moth  at  rest  under  closed 
wings. 

"Look!"  Maryla  whispered.     "See  the  ship!" 

"It's  a  sloop,"  said  Perry.  "It's  about  the  build  of 
mine." 

"You  have  a  whole  ship  of  your  own.?"  she  marveled. 
"Are  you  a  steamboat  captain?" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  then  she  asked: 

"Where  do  you  work?" 

212 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

He  laughed.    "I  don't." 

She  could  not  seem  to  understand  this. 

He  explained:  *T  just  have  my  boat  to  loaf  round  in. 
Would  you  like  to  go  sailing  in  it  some  day?" 

"Oh,  I'd  love  it — some  Simday  when  I'm  not  working." 

"What  if  you  didn't  work  any  more?" 

"I've  got  to." 

"Not  if  you — not  if  you —  I  don't  want  you  to  work 
any  more,  Mary  la.     I  need  you  myself." 

She  wrinkled  her  brows  and  smiled  in  a  look  of  quaint 
perplexity: 

"I  don't  understand." 

"Maryla,  I  want  you  to — to  live  with  me." 

She  had  thought  that  nothing  could  be  more  wonderful 
than  the  wonders  she  had  seen  this  day.  But  she  had 
grown  so  used  to  miracles  that  it  seemed  quite  credible 
that  a  great  man  like  him  should  stoop  to  conquer  her 
and  make  her  his  bride. 

"You  mean  you — you  mean  we  should  get  married?" 
she  whispered  in  wide-eyed  rapture. 

"Naturally,"  he  answered,  baffled  a  little  by  the  deify- 
ing look  she  fastened  on  him.  In  later  days  his  conscience 
sought  refuge  in  that  word  "natvu"ally"  as  a  kind  of 
ghastly  pim. 

Maryla  dallied  with  the  splendor  of  his  proffer. 

"But  for  why — for  why  should  you  like  me  when  so 
many  fi-ine  ladies  are  in  the  world?" 

"Because  I — I'm  simply  crazy  about  you,  child.  You 
fascinate  me.  You  make  the  world  all  new  and  young 
again.  I  never  met  anybody  like  you.  You  don't  know 
anything,  do  you  ?  But  you're — you're  different.  I — I'm 
crazy  about  you,  that's  all.     I'm  just  crazy  about  you." 

Maryla  shuddered  into  his  arm  with  a  laughing  ecstasy: 

"And  me — I  am  crezzy  about  you." 

By  now  the  moon  was  poining  from  the  east  her  silver 
into  the  red  west.  The  two  lights  filled  everything  with 
a  kind  of  witchery  of  altruism,  a  melting  tender-hearted- 

213 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

ness,  an  aversion  from  harsh  words,  protests,  denials.  It 
was  the  hour  of  rose  and  azure  when  the  people  draw  close 
together  against  the  night,  when  the  eyes  are  blindfolded 
by  the  universal  dusk  and  hands  grope  out  in  loneliness 
and  voices  sink  to  whispers.  The  breeze  itself  was  a 
whisper  and  it  had  an  irresistible  persuasiveness. 

Merithew  found  Maryla's  hands.  They  were  cold. 
She  shivered  a  little,  and  when  he  drew  her  closer  she 
did  not  oppose  him.  When  he  whispered,  "Kiss  me, 
Maryla,"  though  she  whimpered,  "Oh  no,  no,  please!" 
she  did  not  fight  away  from  him.  He  kissed  her  cold 
cheek  and  it  seemed  to  grow  suddenly  warm  beneath  his 
lips. 

He  murmured,  "I  love  you."  He  had  said  the  word 
so  often,  so  recklessly,  that  he  knew  all  the  uses  of  it. 
But  it  was  almost  new  to  her,  entirely  new  from  such  a 
wooer  as  this.     She  believed  him. 

When  he  whispered,  "Love  me,  Maryla,"  she  loved  him. 
When  he  demanded,  "Kiss  me,  Maryla,"  she  took  pride 
in  her  meekness,  and  obeyed  him. 

The  sky  belonged  to  the  moon;  the  world  was  the 
moon's  world.  Between  the  pleached  boughs  of  the 
lofty  tulip-trees  the  moon  was  like  a  distant  lamp  behind 
a  lattice.  There  was  no  hint  of  humankind  about  except 
on  the  distant  river,  where  a  few  boats  moved  dreamily, 
their  lights  pouring  rubies  and  emeralds  into  the  river 
with  Cleopatran  wantonness. 

By  and  by  a  long  exau-sion-boat  steamed  north  like  a 
dragon  in  gleaming  scales.  People  were  dancing  on  the 
deck  and  the  music  came  across  the  water  as  with  dew 
upon  it.  But  at  the  head  of  the  boat  was  a  big  search- 
light that  swept  the  hills  and  clouds  and  all  the  scene  for 
the  amusement  or  instruction  of  the  passengers. 

The  inconceivable  swiftness  and  scope  of  its  revelation 
terrified  Maryla,  who  had  never  heard  of  it.  To  her  it 
was  like  a  dark  lantern  carried  by  a  giant  watchman. 
Her  soul  seemed  to  hear  the  voice  of  the  Lord  God  walking 

214 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

in  the  garden  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  and  calling  to 
Eve  hidden  among  the  trees  of  the  garden. 

She  did  not  take  to  herself  the  solace  of  blaming  the 
serpent,  but  she  felt  that  her  brief  term  in  paradise  was 
over. 

The  boat  forged  on  up  the  river  and  gave  back  the 
darkness,  but  the  moon  was  not  the  same. 

Then  suddenly  the  quietude  and  the  solitude  were 
ruined  again,  cloven  asimder  as  with  a  sword.  A  railroad 
train  ripped  through  the  gorge  at  their  feet.  It  went  by 
unseen,  but  it  sent  out  a  shower  of  sparks  and  a  shrill 
escape  of  steam  like  the  great  hiss  of  an  indignant  world. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THAT  same  night  that  same  moon  poured  its  influence 
upon  a  distant  nickel-plated  yacht  steaming  hand- 
somely through  an  appropriately  nickel-plated  sea. 

Jacob  Schuyler  had  thought  himself  immensely  clever 
when  he  devised  the  scheme  of  checkmating  his  head- 
strong daughter  by  kidnapping  her.  A  small  joke  of  his 
own  usually  lasted  him  a  good  while;  and  it  had  pleased 
him  to  shanghai  his  own  child  in  his  own  yacht.  But  the 
humor  had  lost  something  of  its  edge  in  the  course  of  a 
week  at  sea,  especially  since  Muriel  would  not  laugh.  ■ 
Also,  Jacob  had  begun  to  think  hard  about  his  business, 
and  to  distrust  his  office  subordinates. 

His  wife,  too,  was  remembering  a  number  of  necessities 
that  she  had  neglected  in  the  haste  of  their  departure,  and 
neither  her  maid  not  Muriel's  had  a  sea-going  stomach. 
And  of  all  tasks  on  earth  old  Mrs.  Schuyler  enjoyed  least 
waiting  on  her  own  maid. 

But  Jacob  had  vowed  not  to  go  back  until  Muriel  prom- 
ised to  give  up  her  slum  avocations.  She  had  set  that 
little  square  jaw  of  hers — a  misses'  size  model  of  his  own 
— ^and  vowed  that  she  would  never  make  such  a  promise. 
It  was  a  case  of  vow  against  vow,  and  whose  was  the 
frailer? 

Meanwhile  nobody  on  that  pleasure-yacht  was  having 
any  pleasure.  Nobody  could  convince  anybody  of  any- 
thing. Jacob  and  his  wife  could  not  persuade  their  child 
that  they  were  acting  for  her  best  interests,  and  she  could 
not  persuade  them  to  mind  their  own. 

To-night  the  moon  and  the  soft  gale  pleaded  for  recon- 

216 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

ciliation,  but  Muriel  would  not  surrender.  The  old  peo- 
ple, grown  somewhat  to  a  dumpling  shape,  sat  bimched 
in  their  big  arm-chairs  and  watched  that  slim  figure  in 
the  blown  skirts  leaning  on  the  rail,  her  eyes  clinging  to 
the  horizon  like  hands  reluctant  to  let  go. 

Her  parents  watched  her  so  fondly  that  they  saw  even 
the  dim  Uttle  tears  that  came  forth  and  gUstened  on  her 
eyelashes.  Jacob  called  to  her  with  the  kindHness  the 
moon  inspired: 

"What's  the  matter,  honey?" 

"Nothing,  nothing,  thank  you." 

"But  you're  crying,  aren't  you?" 

"Not  necessarily." 

"  I  thought  I  saw  tears  in  your  eyes." 

"It's  the  wind,  I  suppose;   or  the  spray." 

Mrs.  Schuyler  tried  her  luck: 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  dearest?" 

"Of  nothing  that  interests  you." 

"Perhaps  it  would." 

Muriel  left  the  rail  and  flung  herself  into  her  own  chair. 
*'No!  You  have  no  hearts,  either  of  you.  My  suffer- 
ing doesn't  interest  you!" 

That  dealt  them  a  stab  indeed,  the  sharper  than  a  ser- 
pent's stab  of  a  thankless  child.  They  left  off  asking  her 
what  she  was  thinking  about.     So  she  told  them: 

"I  was  thinking  of  what  that  poor  ItaHan  mother 
must  feel  in  that  awful  tenement,  wondering  where  her 
child  is.  And  I  was  thinking  of  the  child  crying  with 
fear  and  lonehness.  And  you  won't  let  me  go  and 
find  it!" 

Susan  pleaded:  "We  love  you  too  well  to  let  you  mix 
yourself  in  this  thing." 

"Love  me!  And  you  break  my  heart?  You  make  a 
brute  of  me,  and  a  fool  and  a  liar.  You  force  me  to 
abandon  all  those  wretched  people  that  trusted  me." 

"We're  sorry  for  the  poor  souls,  of  course,  my  dear," 
Jacob  urged.     "How  often  have  I  told  you  that  the 

217 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

last  thing  I  did  was  to  telephone  Chivot  to  do  what  he 
cotdd?" 

"Chivot!"  she  sniffed,  and  there  was  his  epitaph  in  the 
sniff. 

"Can't  you  understand,  honey,"  Jacob  pleaded,  "that 
we're  only  guided  by  our  love  of  you?  We  can't  endure 
the  thought  of  yotir  going  down  into  those  hideous 
regions." 

"They're  not  hideous.  They're  crowded,  but  so  is  a 
summer  hotel.  People  are  people  there  as  well  as  any- 
where." 

"  But  it's  not  safe  for  you." 

"Safe!  Where  is  it  safe,  in  this  world  or  the  next? 
If  I'm  never  to  go  anywhere  or  do  anything  that  isn't 
safe,  I  might  as  well  jump  overboard  and  get  out  of 
danger." 

"But  suppose,  while  you  were  trying  to  find  that  kid- 
napped boy,  somebody  kidnapped  you?" 

"O  Lord!  papa,  don't,  don't!  You're  not  old  enough 
for  your  second  childhood.  You  talk  of  the  East  Side  as 
if  it  were  the  Wild  West  in  dime-novel  days." 

"Of  course  I  do,"  said  Jacob.  "It's  worse  than 
Cripple  Creek  ever  was." 

"Those  gunmen  down  there,"  Susan  added,  "would 
shoot  the  spurs  off  a  cowboy  bad  man  before  he  could 
draw  his  cayuse,  or  whatever  it  is  they  shoot  with  out 
there." 

Muriel  shook  her  head  over  the  nursery  ogre  story. 
"Oh,  Daddy,  Mammy,  naughty,  naughty!" 

"It's  true!"  said  Jacob,  angrily.  "The  papers  are  full 
of  gunplay  every  day;  yet  they  don't  tell  a  tenth  of  it. 
The  police  don't  want  it  on  their  records,  and  the  papers 
won't  print  every  bit  of  pop-gun  practice  at  one  of  those 
obscure  dances  or  gin-miUs.  The  people  they  Idll  or 
maim  are  nobody  much,  an)rway.  But  the  hospitals  can 
tell  you  a  story.  I'm  on  the  board  of  two  or  three  of  'em 
and  I  get  the  reports.     Do  you  realize  that  hardly  a  night 

218 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

passes  without  eight  or  ten  people  being  brought  in 
stabbed  or  shot  or  beaten  up?  Those  Pike  County  and 
Black  Hills  fellows  were  nothing  compared  to  New 
York.  They  didn't  have  people  enough  to  shoot.  New 
York  is  simply  full  of  gtmmen  and  knifemen  and  bomb- 
throwers." 

"That  makes  it  all  the  more  attractive,"  said  Muriel, 
with  the  gaiety  of  youth  at  the  hint  of  adventure. 

Jacob  opened  his  mouth  with  a  gasp,  then  clamped  it 
on  his  cigar  and  spoke  through  his  clenched  teeth  like  a 
proper  pirate. 

"Well,  mother,  if  that's  the  way  she  feels  about  it, 
we  might  as  well  head  for  Europe.  I'll  go  arrange  it 
with  Bjorlin." 

He  slapped  his  hands  on  the  arms  of  his  chair  and 
heaved  himself  erect  with  difficidty.  He  marched  out, 
as  he  had  done  when  a  board  of  directors  would  not  vote 
as  he  wished,  and  he  left  them  dazed  and  disorganized 
to  siirrender  and  recall  him. 

Muriel  was  a  bit  dazed  and  disorganized  herself.  Or- 
dinarily she  had  won  her  way  in  her  conflicts  with  her 
father.     Was  she  losing  her  grip? 

Then  her  mother  began  on  her:  "Now  I  implore  you 
not  to  oppose  your  father.  He  doesn't  want  to  go  to 
Europe  now,  and  Heaven  knows  I  can't  bear  the  idea. 
But  you're  both  so  stubborn,  you  are  killing  me  between 
you." 

Muriel's  resolution  was  unshaken.  "I'm  sorry,  mother. 
There's  no  place  I  want  to  go  less  than  to  Europe.  But 
I'd  rather  go  to  Africa  than  be  bullied  like  this.  I'm  of 
age,  and  I  won't  be  treated  as  a  Uttle  girl." 

In  her  desperateness  Mrs.  Schuyler  had  an  inspiration: 
"I  don't  for  a  moment  believe  they  have  lost  any  boy 
at  all.     I'm  perfectly  sure  they  never  had  a  boy  to  lose." 

"Really,  mother,  you  mustn't  go  crazy  right  before  my 
eyes." 

Mrs.  Schuyler  did  not  mind  the  sarcasm.    She  retorted: 

219 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"  Oh,  everybody's  crazy  but  the  young.  But  you'd  better 
acquire  a  little  of  the  common  insanity  of  the  rest  of  the 
grown-ups.  Don't  become  eccentric,  my  child,  whatever 
else  you  do.  I'd  almost  rather  have  you  fast  than  a 
crank.  Fast  people  do  reform  sometimes,  but  cranks 
get  worse  and  worse." 

Muriel  stared  at  her  mother  with  all  the  disappointment 
children  feel  when  their  parents  fall  short  of  their  ideals. 
Muriel  thought,  "Poor  child!" 

Her  mother  said:  "Poor  child!"  and  groaned,  "I'm  go- 
ing to  bed.     Good  night." 

They  kissed  each  other  formally  like  women  at  war, 
and  Mrs.  Schuyler  went  to  her  cabin.  The  boat  was 
rolling  so  that  she  progressed  with  a  rather  bibulous 
dignity.  The  moonlight  seemed  to  be  relieved  when  she 
took  her  cynical  coimsels  away  from  its  tenderness. 

Muriel  went  back  to  the  railing  and  resimied  her 
study  of  the  horizon.  It  seemed  a  pity  that  she  should 
be  alone  and  all  that  moonlight  going  to  waste.  But  she 
was  thinking  of  a  young  man,  a  yoimg  physician.  She 
was  thinking,  "What  is  he  thinking  of  me?"  She  felt 
sure  that  if  he  were  thinking  of  her  it  was  with  bitter 
resentment. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

HE  was  thinking  of  her  and  musing,  "Is  she  thinking 
of  me?"  He  was  afraid  that  she  had  forgotten  him 
as  utterly  as  she  had  neglected  him.  He  was  looking  at 
the  same  moon  and  wondering  where  she  was. 

Young  Dr.  Worthing  had  more  than  amorous  reasons 
for  asking  information  as  to  Muriel  Schuyler's  whereabouts. 
She  had  promised  to  telephone  him  the  following  day. 
The  next  morning  there  was  no  call. 

"It's  just  a  way  she  has,"  he  pleaded  to  himself- in  her 
behalf.  And  she  had  such  becoming  ways  that  even  this 
fault  took  on  a  charm  because  it  was  hers. 

The  second  morning  he  was  both  hurt  and  alarmed. 
About  noon  he  was  sent  for.  The  messenger  could  not 
pronounce  the  name  of  the  visitor,  but  he  called  him  a 
"wop."  Worthing  went  down  to  the  reception-room  and 
was  greeted  with  touching  devotion  by  a  man  he  had 
never  seen. 

Worthing  knew  him  for  an  Italian  by  his  trousers,  which 
were  too  tight,  too  low  in  the  waist,  and  too  high  at  the 
ankles.  He  was  fat  and  huge  and  his  skin  was  like  cur- 
rant-jelly. There  were  traces  of  flour  in  his  hair,  and  his 
finger-nails  were  snowed  up  with  flour. 

It  was  Angelillo  senior  and  he  wanted  the  ransom 
money.  He  had  advertised  in  the  paper  as  Worthing 
directed. 

"To-day  my  telephone  rings.  Man  says — Italian  man 
says:  'For  four  t'ousan'  dollar,  you  getta  de  boy  back; 
notta  de  wan  dam*  cent  smaller.'  I  says,  'Please,  I  can- 
not get  so  moch  mawney!'     He  says,  'You  cannot  getta 

221 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

de  boy.'  I  says,  'Wait  a  minuto.'  Click!  telephone  is 
stop,  man  gone.  I  say  to  telephone-girl,  '  Queeck,  where 
is  dat  las'  niimber?'     She  says  she  doan'  knaw." 

"  The  poHce  could  make  them  hunt  it  up." 

Mr.  Angelillo's  opinion  of  the  police  was  expressed  in 
a  grimace  of  contempt. 

Angelillo  outHned  his  plan:  "  Police  is  no  good.  Plaina 
clothes  is  no  good.  ItaHano  to  catch  Italiano.  First  is 
de  boy;  to  get  my  boy  back  to  his  mawther,  I  pay  all 
what  is  ask  of  mawney.  After,  I  find  out  who  is  keedanap 
my  boy.     I  keel  him — so!" 

He  drove  an  imaginary  stiletto  into  an  imaginary 
body  with  the  greatest  enthusiasm. 

"When  he  is  keel  I  take  back  my  mawney  and  yours, 
and  I  pay  you  again  what  you  geeve.     See?" 

Worthing  smiled  at  the  ingenious  device.  But  he  urged 
Angelillo  to  make  one  more  effort  to  lower  the  demand, 
and  Angelillo  left  him  with  some  waning  of  enthusiasm, 
saying  that  he  would  return  the  next  day. 

Dr.  Worthing  felt  that  Muriel  would  want  to  learn  the 
news.  It  was  an  excellent  excuse  for  an  interview.  He 
telephoned  the  town  house,  and  was  told  that  she  was  on 
a  yacht  cruise.  She  had  put  to  sea  for  an  indefinite 
period  without  sending  him  a  word !  She  had  gone  back 
to  the  upper  air.  Probably  some  super-rich  lover  or 
some  visiting  nobleman  was  engaging  her  thoughts  with 
glittering  courtship.  Perhaps  she  was  making  a  funny 
story  of  her  little  slumming  excursion  and  mimicking  the 
hospital  interne  she  had  dazzled  for  a  few  days  just  to 
see  how  foohsh  he  would  be. 

Doctors  must  learn  to  deaden  their  feelings  or  they 
will  perish.  Worthing  had  learned  to  be  calm  under 
bitter  ordeals.  But  Muriel  had  stabbed  him  in  a  chamber 
of  his  heart  that  had  never  been  anesthetized,  and  he 
could  not  put  his  wincing  soul  into  the  twilight  sleep. 

Two  days  later  Angelillo  sought  him  out  again.  He 
had  published  another  bid  in  the  Araldo  and  in  the  dismal 

222 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

auction  with  unseen  bidders  had  brought  the  price  of  the 
boy  down  to  twenty-five  hundred  dollars. 

He  called  for  the  money.  Worthing  stared  at  him  in 
open-jawed  confusion.  All  the  man  wanted  was  twenty- 
five  hundred  dollars  in  cash.  Worthing's  total  war  fund 
amounted  to  about  twenty-five  dollars. 

Angelillo  mistook  the  reason  of  Worthing's  embarrass- 
ment. He  opened  out  his  pahn  and  rubbed  his  thumb 
across  his  finger-tips  in  the  money-gesture  and  smiled: 

"You  lenda  me  twenta-fi'  hondred.  I  pay.  I  grabba 
de  boy,  I  stabba  de  man.  See — like-a  so!  Ugh!  Den 
I  nabba  de  mon'." 

There  was  all  of  sunny  Italy  in  his  smile.  Worthing 
had  a  feeling  that  if  he  did  not  furnish  the  money,  Mr. 
Angelillo  would  just  as  amiably  push  the  stiletto  into  him. 

As  sometimes  happens  to  people  in  desperate  embar*' 
rassment,  Worthing  had  resort  to  the  last  resort  of  too 
clever  people,  the  truth.  And  as  sometimes  happens, 
the  truth  cleared  the  air  somewhat  and  foimd  credence 
and  sympathy. 

He  told  the  poor  father  how  he  had  been  brought  into 
the  affair  and  how  he  had  been  deceived  by  the  same 
pretty-faced  glib  promiser.  He  told  all  but  her  name. 
When  Angelillo  pleaded  for  that  he  said: 

**I  can't  tell  you.  It  wouldn't  do  any  good.  She's 
out  of  town."  And  then  the  fantastic  notion  came  to 
him.     "I  don't  believe  she  told  me  her  real  name." 

After  all,  what  evidence  had  he  that  the  girl  was  Muriel 
Schuyler?  He  had  found  her  in  a  car  marked  J.  S., 
but  that  proved  nothing.  She  might  have  been  a  maid, 
or  a  picked-up  sweetheart  of  the  chauffeur's.  In  his  anger 
he  twisted  all  the  arguments  awry  and  everything  proved 
what  he  feared  to  have  it  prove. 

His  meekness  and  frankness  and  shame  were  so  com- 
plete that  Angelillo  had  mercy  on  him,  forgave  him,  and 
resolved  to  go  back  to  fight  his  battle  in  his  own  way. 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  dirty  envelope,  and  from 

223 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

that  a  sheet  of  cheap  note-paper  on  which  was  printed 
some  message.     In  it  was  a  httle  curl  of  black  hair. 

"Dey  senda  me  dees,"  he  explained.  "Eet  is  from 
Filippo's  hairs.  Dey  say,  eef  no  mawney  come  to-night, 
to-morrow  dey  senda  me" — ^he  paused  and  breathed  hard 
— "dey  senda  me  de  leetla  finger  from  his  left  hand  by 
parcel  posto.  And  de  nex'  day — ancora  uno  digitio!'* 
The  anguish  on  his  face  changed  to  unimaginable  ire. 
"Eef  dey  do,  by  de  body  of  Cristo,  wan  day  I  find  deir 
boy  and  I  do  de  same." 

The  fierce  liquor  of  revenge  sustained  him  as  he  turned 
away. 

The  next  morning  Worthing  had  a  teiepnone  message 
from  the  Assistant  Commissioner  on  Ellis  Island,  asking 
him  if  Miss  Schuyler  had  done  anything  about  the  appeal 
against  the  deportation  of  the  Balinsky  girl.  Nothing 
had  been  tiuned  in,  and  the  time  was  short. 

Worthing  answered  with  a  griding  laugh:  "Hah!  She 
fooled  you,  too,  did  she?" 

"I  don't  imderstand." 

"Neither  do  I.     Good-by!" 

Misery  loves  company,  and  the  Assistant  Commissioner 
was  welcome. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

TEN  days  after  Muriel's  disappearance,  Dr.  Worth- 
ing was  called  out  to  bring  in  the  shredded  victims  of 
a  dynamite  accident  in  the  Broadway  Subway  construc- 
tion. He  came  back  with  a  wagon-load  of  horrors  and 
ttimed  them  over  to  a  squad  of  surgeons  and  nurses. 

When  he  had  washed  up  and  changed  to  his  street 
clothes  he  was  told  that  a  yoimg  lady  was  waiting  to  see 
him;    It  was  Muriel. 

She  rose  and  hurried  to  him  with  a  little  cry  of  delight 
that  broke  off  short  before  the  fierce  anger  of  his  glare. 

"  Didn't  you  get  my  telegram?"  she  asked. 

"What  telegram?"  he  groaned;  she  was  so  pretty  it  was 
a  pity  she  must  be  so  false. 

"The  one  I  gave  the  porter.  He  swore  he'd  send  it. 
I  hadn't  time  to  send  it  myself  and  catch  the  train.  I'll 
murder  that  black  hound  if  I  ever  see  him  again." 

Worthing  tossed  his  head  impatiently.  Another  of  her 
stories  was  coming.  It  came.  She  told  him  of  the 
tyranny  of  her  atrocious  father.  She  told  him  of  her 
efforts  to  get  word  to  him,  to  bribe  a  sailor,  the  wireless 
operator,  anybody,  to  send  him  word. 

They  anchored  now  and  then  in  various  harbors  while 
sailors  were  sent  ashore  for  mail  and  newspapers  and  sup- 
plies. She  tried  to  escape  at  every  one,  but  the  guard 
was  too  strict. 

"They  never  went  in  close  enough  for  me  to  swim, 
though,  or  I'd  have  tried  it.  The  other  day — it  was  my 
last  chance,  too — ^we  were  off  Newport  News,  and  the 
next  stop  was  Europe.     I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  war-ship 

225 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

there,  and  the  Lord  sent  me  a  stroke  of  genius.  Father 
and  mother  were  playing  b^zique,  the  launch  was  ashore, 
and  most  of  the  sailors  were  asleep.  I  went  into  the 
navigating-room  and  found  where  it  tells  you  about 
signal  codes  and  things,  and  I  got  out  the  necessary  pen- 
nants and  made  up  a  signal  for  'Mutiny  on  Board.  Send 
Help.' 

"Nobody  paid  any  particular  attention  to  me  so  long 
as  I  was  in  plain  view.  I  used  to  putter  about  the  deck 
a  good  deal  and  learn  the  ropes.  I  generally  ran  up  the 
colors  and  lowered  them.  So  I  made  up  a  hoist  and  raised 
it  and  nobody  on  the  yacht  noticed  it.  Nobody  on  the  war- 
ship noticed  it,  either,  for  the  longest  time. 

"Then  there  was  a  sign  of  life  on  board  and  a  lot  of 
pointing.  Finally  I  saw  a  cutter  leaving  her  side.  So  I 
strolled  up  to  my  darUng  old  dad  and  told  him  what  I 
had  done. 

"He  almost  exploded.  I  told  him  that  I  was  going  to 
report  that  the  yacht  was  engaged  in  the  slave-carrying 
trade,  and  that  I  was  the  slave,  white,  of  age,  unmarried, 
and  American,  and  I  was  being  dragged  away  by  force. 
So  I  had  a  right  to  call  a  policeman  or  a  war-ship  or  the 
whole  United  States  army. 

"Well,  father  was  ready  to  die.  He  loathes  publicity, 
anyvay,  and  he  could  see  tons  of  it  coming  his  way.  I 
told  him  I  would  save  him  from  every  last  smitch  of  trouble 
if  he'd  solemnly  swear  to  quit  tr3dng  to  bully  me  and  let 
me  go  ashore. 

"He  had  nothing  else  to  do,  so  he  swore.  Then  when 
the  cutter  came  alongside  I  met  the  officer  and  treated 
him  as  if  I  were  very  much  surprised.  He  asked  what 
the  trouble  was  and  I  told  him  that  everybody  was  well 
and  happy;  why?  He  explained  about  the  signals  and  I 
pretended  to  be  ready  to  drop.  I  told  him  it  was  all  my 
fault.  I  had  been  getting  up  a  little  birthday  dinner  and 
I  wanted  to  dress  the  ship.  I  had  a  lot  of  other  flags  I 
wanted  to  fly,  and  those  were  the  first  I  found.    We  had 

226 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

to  muster  the  crew  to  convince  him  that  everything  was 
all  right.  Then  I  begged  him  to  have  tea — and  he  did. 
He  was  terribly  disappointed  at  not  being  able  to  save 
anybody,  but  he  was  awfully  nice — and  very  good- 
looking.     I  say,  he  was  very  good-looking." 

She  eyed  Worthing  closely  to  see  if  there  were  no 
jealousy  in  him.  He  was  grimly  trying  to  disbelieve  the 
evidently  concocted  romance.  He  did  not  want  to  be 
jealous  of  an  imaginary  male  beauty.  He  was  icily 
insolent  before  her  smile. 

She  was  canny  enough  to  see  that  his  head  was  having  a 
battle  with  his  heart.     She  said: 

"Could  I  bribe  you  to  smile  once  for  five  thousand 
dollars?" 

She  produced  the  cash  and  spread  it  out  before  him. 
It  was  not  stage  money.  If  that  were  real,  perhaps  the 
rest  of  her  story  was.  He  stared  into  her  eyes  and  saw 
nothing  there  but  truth — though  she  had  just  finished 
telling  him  a  story  of  her  ingenious  Hes.  But  such  lies 
did  not,  of  course,  count  against  her,  since  they  were  told 
in  order  to  get  back  to  him. 

When  she  saw  that  he  had  relented  she  went  on  with  the 
story  of  her  hasty  escape  from  the  yacht.  She  would  not 
wait  to  come  back  by  sea,  but  rushed  ashore.  She  described 
the  telegram  she  had  written,  and  reiterated  her  desire 
to  murder  the  porter  who  pocketed  the  money,  tip  and  all. 

She  talked  at  a  lightning-express  speed,  and  ended  with 
a  final  rush  like  piilling  into  a  station: 

"And  now  tell  me  everything  that's  happened.  I  was 
so  afraid  about  the  poor  AngeHllo  boy.  Did  Mr.  Chivot 
accomplish  anything?  Of  coiirse  not,  but — oh,  do  tell 
me!    You  haven't  said  a  word." 

He  told  her  what  he  knew  of  the  kidnapped  boy's 
affairs  and  he  told  her  what  he  dreaded. 

She  was  afire  with  terror  and  insisted  on  leaving  at  once 
for  the  Angelillo  home.  Worthing  was  not  in  a  position 
to  act  upon  his  impulses  as  she  on  hers,  but  he  managed 

227 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

to  compound  an  excuse  that  satisfied  his  chief.  They 
set  out  together  for  Batavia  Street,  wondering  what  they 
might  find  there. 

As  they  whirled  into  Batavia  Street,  where  automo- 
biles are  not  frequent,  they  came  within  an  ace  of  smiting 
Happy  Hanigan  again. 

He  leaped  to  the  curb  in  time  and  began  to  howl 
profanity. 

"Where  t'e  hell  yous  goin'?  Say!  is  dat  you.  Miss 
Schuyler?    Well,  I'll  b^     'Scuse  me." 

His  goblin  wrath  had  changed  instantly  to  a  smile  that 
would  have  been  almost  too  sweet  for  a  cherub;  but  his 
language  preserved  its  habits. 

Muriel  hastened  to  get  down  from  the  taxicab  and 
embrace  her  long-lost  protege.  Happy  winked  across  her 
shoulder  at  Worthing  and  said : 

"Hey,  Doc,  toin  your  head  de  udder  way.  Don't  you 
know  how  to  act  when  a  feller  meets  his  goil?" 

Worthing  tried  to  smile,  but  Happy  read  his  look  aright. 

"Looky  at  him,  darlin',  he's  green  with  chealousness." 

Muriel  surprised  the  blush  that  ran  across  Worthing's 
face.  Then  one  ran  across  her  own.  Then  she  became 
intensely  interested  in  Happy's  condition. 

"We're  coming  up  to  see  you  just  as  soon  as  we've 
had  a  little  talk  with  Mrs.  Angelillo  about  her  boy." 

Muriel  flashed  up  the  dingy  stairway,  an  angel  fresh 
from  heaven  in  robes  fresh  from  Paris. 

When  Muriel  entered  the  Angelillo  cavern  she  was 
stared  at  first  with  superstitious  unbelief  and  then  glared 
at  with  superstitious  recognition.  They  laid  upon  her 
shoulders  the  blame  for  the  ills  that  preceded  her  first 
arrival  in  their  life  as  well  as  those  that  followed.  They 
accused  her  of  the  Evil  Eye,  the  crudest  folly  that  has 
survived  from  the  old  demonic  lore. 

They  made  the  sign  of  protection  against  the  Jettatura 

228 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

and  motioned  her  away.  Worthing  had  prepared  her  for 
such  a  reception  and  she  had  composed  in  the  back  of  her 
head  a  little  apologia  in  her  best  ItaHan. 

She  reeled  it  off  now  and  won  past  their  wrath.  The 
most  convincing  sign  of  all  was  the  brandishing  of  the 
actual  money.  vShe  allowed  them  to  touch  those  almost 
omnipotent  green  wafers  and  they  recognized  their  un- 
canny power. 

The  thousand-dollar  bills  excited  an  almost  overwhelm- 
ing emotion  in  the  young  man  whom  Muriel  had  met  be- 
fore. Gemma  introduced  him  as  her  husband.  He  was 
an  Italian  of  the  type  that  has  no  Italian  feature.  At 
home  his  name  was  Nunzio  Mangianello;  abroad  he 
called  himself  "Mike  Kelley"  for  short.  He  was  of  a 
basking  nature,  and  before  he  married  Gemma  had  been 
content  to  borrow  a  street-piano  and  play  the  trouba- 
dour for  a  day  or  two,  earning  enough  to  keep  him  alive 
the  rest  of  the  week.  He  had  slept  upon  green  bananas, 
aiding  them  to  ripen  with  his  own  warm  nature. 

He  had  easily  won  the  green-banana  soul  of  Gemma, 
and  then  had  settled  down  as  a  basker  in  the  Angelillo 
home.  What  little  he  earned  he  spent  in  gambling, 
preferably  at  the  noble  game  of  stuss — a  game  which  some 
anonymous  genius  improved  with  a  wonderful  feattire: 
the  house  pays  back  to  the  man  who  has  lost  his  entire 
fortune  a  large  enough  percentage  to  pay  his  car-fare 
home.  This  encourages  the  timid  gambler  to  risk  every- 
thing, in  the  calm  assurance  that  he  can  never  be  entirely 
wiped  out. 

The  stuss-house  which  Nunzio  chiefly  honored  with  his 
patronage  was  more  or  less  concealed  in  Allen  Street,  and 
presided  over  with  more  or  less  police  permission  by 
"Shang"  Ganley,  one  of  the  most  eminent  gtmmen  of  the 
lower  East  Side.  And  this  gimman's  more  or  less  official 
wife  was  the  versatile  little  brick-topped  imp  generally 
known  as  "Red  Ida." 

Nunzio  had  poured  into  the  sympathetic  ears  of  the 
229 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Ganle)^  his  first  grief  at  the  kidnapping  of  his  tiny  brother- 
in-law  Filippo.  He  had  been  sincerely  grieved  by  the 
loss  of  the  little  fellow  and  had  moved  the  gunman  and 
Red  Ida  to  facile  tears. 

When  Muriel  disappeared  her  treachery  was  mourned 
in  the  stuss-house  and  voted  a  dirty  trick.  And  now  that 
she  had  come  back  Nunzio  could  hardly  possess  his  soul 
in  patience  till  the  chance  came  to  take  the  splendid  news 
to  his  sympathetic  friends  in  AUen  Street. 

Gemma  could  give  no  news  of  Filippo  save  that  he  was 
alive.  He  had  printed  them  a  few  little  notes  pleading 
for  rescue.  The  father  was  ransacking  the  town  for  him, 
and  was  even  now  in  the  Little  Italy  far  up-town,  prowl- 
ing through  areaways  and  back  yards. 

Learning  that  he  would  not  be  back  for  two  hours  or 
more,  Muriel  and  Worthing  determined  to  take  Happy 
Hanigan  to  the  great  surgeon  whose  new  operation 
promised  to  straighten  his  twisted  spine. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

MURIEL  was  like  a  young  girl  running  along  a  bleak 
mountainside  hunting  out  the  sparse  flowers  and 
never  dreaming  of  the  lurking  rattlesnakes,  cynical,  un- 
grateful, unapproachable  with  kindhness.  She  was  mak- 
ing a  lark  out  of  charity,  glowing  warmly  through  the 
winter  of  pain  like  another  April.  This  surely  was  the 
way  that  charity  should  be  ministered — with  eagerness 
and  laughter  and  qtiick  tears.  Thus  taken,  it  became 
the  best  of  all  sports,  a  gambling  game  with  stakes  well 
won  or  well  lost  as  the  die  might  turn. 

She  found  Mrs.  Hanigan  at  home,  brushing  Happy's 
hair  and  washing  the  back  of  his  neck  for  company.  He 
had  just  emerged  from  the  wash-boiler  still  steaming  on 
the  wet  floor,  and  had  not  yet  arrived  inside  a  clean  shirt. 
He  modestly  sought  concealment  behind  a  cupboard  door, 
but  Muriel  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  stripped  to  the 
waist.  She  closed  her  eyes,  not  with  shame,  but  with 
pity  for  those  clay-pipe  arms  and  that  pitiful  twisted 
back  and  that  big  neckless  head.  He  looked  like  a 
waxen  torso  half  collapsed. 

She  turned  away  as  he  fought  into  his  shirt,  but  she 
heard  his  groans  of  distress  and  his  muffled  oaths  of 
impatience.  When  the  shirt  was  tucked  in  and  but- 
toned up  he  came  forward  with  his  hair  askew,  but  his  big 
smile  in  fuU  working  order.  His  mother  belabored  his 
head  with  the  hair-brush  and  added  the  finishing  touches 
while  he  tried  to  shake  hands  roiuid  her. 

"You're  going  with  us  to  the  doctor,  aren't  you?" 
Muriel  asked,  and  he  grinned. 

231 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"I'd  go  almost  any  place  wit'  you,  darlin'." 

"Mickeen!"  his  mother  gasped;  "such  talk  you  have!" 
She  turned  to  Muriel.  "You  mustn't  mind  his  lip,  ma'am 
dear;    he  has  the  good  heart  within." 

"I  love  his  lip,"  said  Muriel.  "He's  the  bravest  man 
I  know." 

"Ah,  the  Lord  love  you,"  cooed  Mrs.  Hanigan.  "I'm 
after  tellin'  him  he'll  be  the  straightest  lad  in  the  Four 
Baronies  whin  the  docther  is  through  with  him.  He 
wasn't  so  strahng  for  the  idea  at  first,  but  the  pain  grows 
on  him  that  bad,  sure  every  breath  is  the  pullin'  of  a  tooth." 

They  went  down  the  steps  slowly,  Happy  hobbling 
with  senile  awkwardness.  The  pride  of  riding  in  an 
automobile  was  the  best  of  tonics. 

They  arrived  up -town  finally  at  their  destination. 
Dr.  Eccleston's  office  was  wherever  there  was  super- 
surgery  to  perform,  but  he  made  his  headquarters  in  a 
twelve-story  structiire  devoted  entirely  to  physicians. 
It  was  a  kind  of  mixture  of  hospital,  apartment-house,  and 
office-building.  Ever5rthing  was  white  and  comerless, 
aseptic  and  microscopically  clean.  The  elevator-boy  was 
in  white  and  looked  as  if  he  had  just  been  sterilized.  As 
they  went  up  they  saw  a  trained  nurse  on  every  floor. 
There  was  a  kind  of  sacredness  about  it  to  Muriel,  a 
temple  of  science  with  a  priestcraft  of  suspicion  instead 
of  faith,  of  warfare  against  the  invisible  fiends,  with  the 
knife  instead  of  prayer. 

They  found  Dr.  Eccleston  just  leaving  for  one  of  the 
hospitals  where  he  worked  gratis  for  the  love  of  his  art. 

Miss  Schuyler's  name  and  her  plea  made  him  turn 
back.  He  left  her  in  the  reception-room  and  went  into 
his  own  office  with  Happy  and  Dr.  Worthing  and  a 
trained  nurse. 

Muriel  remained  alone  with  the  doleful  reading-matter 
one  finds  on  the  table  in  a  doctor's  waiting-room — 
chosen,  perhaps,  with  a  view  to  making  one  more  willing 
to  see  him. 

232 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

When  at  last  Eccleston  came  in  with  Dr.  Worthing 
Happy  was  not  with  them. 

"Tell  me,  doctor,"  Muriel  gasped,  eager  to  know  the 
worst.     "  Is  there  any  hope  for  him  ?" 

"Every  hope."  He  did  not  voice  his  mental  reserva- 
tion, "And  no  certainty." 

"Oh,  that's  glorious,"  Muriel  faltered  in  a  broken 
voice,  ambiguous  between  giggling  and  sobbing.  Her 
lips  were  curved  up,  but  the  tears  were  dripping  down. 
"Just  what  is  the  m-matter  with  the  poor  child ?" 

"Just  what  Dr.  Worthing  here  suspected,"  the  older 
man  said  with  professional  chivahry.  "The  boy  is  suf- 
fering from  the  disease  named  after  old  Percival  Potts, 
and  his  relief  is  the  new  Albee  operation." 

Muriel  made  a  face  of  repugnance:  "What  an  awful 
fate — to  have  a  disease  or  an  operation  named  after  you !" 

Worthing  sighed:  "I  wish  to  the  Lord  I  could  have  a 
little  of  that  fate.  I'd  rather  discover  the  boundaries  of  a 
disease  than  find  the  north  pole,  and  I'd  rather  invent  a 
cure  for  it  than  all  the  airships  in  the  world." 

On  Worthing's  face  a  holy  fervor  supplanted  his  usual 
severity.     Muriel  had  not  thought  of  him  as  a  crusader. 

"Well,  if  it's  all  so  beautiful,"  she  said,  "tell  me  about 
it.     Is  it  terrible  and  will  it  hurt?" 

Dr.  Eccleston  thought  of  his  appointments,  but  he 
pushed  a  chair  at  Worthing  and  sat  on  another. 

"The  boy  is  suffering  from  a  tubercular  condition  of  the 
spine.  It  will  get  worse  and  worse;  he  will  grow  more  and 
more  bent;  his  gait  will  be  more  awkward;  his  breath- 
ing more  painful;  his  lungs  will  be  eventually  affected." 

"But  the  operation — is  it  very  dreadful?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Eccleston,  with  the  cheerfulness  of 
a  surgeon — the  least  contagious  cheerfulness  in  the  world. 
"It's  what  an  architect  would  call  an  amusing  piece  of 
work.     Would  you  like  me  to  tell  you  about  it?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  rash  curiosity. 

He  produced  a  pencil  and  made  rapid  sketches  on  his 

8  233 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

prescription  pad.  The  vertebrae  looked  like  battalions 
on  a  military  map.  "You  see,  here's  a  normal  spine. 
Here's  where  the  trouble  begins.  These  vertebrae  began 
to  break  down.  This  is  the  way  Happy's  spine  looks 
now."  He  sketched  a  battle-line  driven  in  at  its  center. 
"You  see  it's  bending  under  the  weight,  it's  slipping,  it's 
hurting  his  lungs.  Now  it  has  been  discovered  that  if 
these  bones  can  be  held  fast  they  will  get  well.  But  it 
is  difficult  to  rig  up  a  scaffolding  inside  your  back  here, 
or  to  fasten  girders  and  beams  to  your  spine." 

*T  should  think  so,"  Muriel  said,  feebly,  trying  not  to 
faint  and  wondering  why  all  this  should  be  so  pecuHarly 
dreadful.  Eccleston  did  not  realize  the  strain  she  was 
under,  and  went  gaily  on  with  a  scientist's  impersonal 
interest. 

"  Now  Dr.  Albee,  who  has  a  kind  of  a  gift  for  carpentry, 
worked  up  a  neat  Httle  scheme  for  strengthening  that 
spine  with  a  bone  graft,  a  piece  of  the  shin  about  eight 
inches  long." 

"Whose  shin?"  Muriel  whispered. 

"The  patient's,  of  course,"  said  Eccleston.  "Albee  in- 
vented beautiful  little  electric  motor  saws  and  drills,  and  he 
makes  the  bone  pUable  with  several  slight  incisions  on  the 
under  side,  the  way  a  carpenter  bends  a  board — ^like  this. 

"First,  of  coiirse,  he  has  laid  bare  the  spinal  column  as 
far  as  necessary  to  include  one  good  vertebra  at  either  end 
of  the  bad  ones.  Then  with  a  special  chisel  and  mallet 
he  splits  each  of  these  spinous  processes  down  about  half 
an  inch,  forming  a  kind  of  a  furrow  along  here.  He  gets 
out  his  shin-bone  cleat  and  sets  it  in  here,  straightens  it 
all  as  much  as  he  can,  fastens  it  together  with  kangaroo 
tendons,  and  closes  it  up.  And  that's  all  there  is  to  it. 
Exquisite,  isn't  it?" 

He  turned  to  Muriel  for  approval,  but  she  was  wavering 
and  ashen.     Eccleston  sighed. 

"I  always  forget."  He  called  to  the  nurse  to  fetch 
some  aromatic  spirits  of  ammonia,  and  Muriel  was  soon 

234 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

in  better  command  of  herself.     But  her  imagination  was 
the  more  alive. 

"It's  frightful,  it's  pitiful;  it  will  hurt,"  she  wailed. 

"It  hurts  him  now,  my  dear,"  said  Worthing,  seizing 
her  hand  and  crushing  it  with  a  helpful  pressure.  The 
words  and  the  act  were  but  a  physician's  habit,  yet  they 
had  a  sudden  personal  significance  to  these  two. 

Still  she  hunted  for  argimients  against  the  hateful 
deed.  "But  he  would  be  a  long,  long  while  getting  well — 
if  he  got  well — ^wouldn't  he?" 

"Five  or  six  months  or  so." 

She  groaned  at  the  vision;  but  Worthing  urged:  "It's 
shorter  than  a  Hfetime,  isn't  it?  The  pain  of  breathing 
would  be  ended  almost  at  once.  He  would  be  kept  on  a 
special  fracture  bed  for  six  or  eight  weeks.  Then  he  would 
begin  to  walk  about  a  little." 

"How  could  he  walk  with  his  shin  gone?" 

"That  would  be  all  grown  up  again  by  then." 

"It  would?" 

"Yes,  Nature  has  invented  the  only  self-repairing  en- 
gines on  the  market.  She  only  wants  a  chance.  This  is 
Happy's  chance  to  live  long,  to  grow  to  manhood  and 
perhaps  to  some  great  career." 

She  stared  at  him  in  amazement .   * '  You  advise  it ,  then  ? ' ' 

"Of  course." 

She  fired  her  last  shot:  "But  you  couldn't  tell  Happy 
about  it  and  you  wouldn't  dare  attempt  it  without  his 
consent." 

"I've  told  Happy,"  said  Worthing. 

"Oh!"  She  shuddered  through  all  her  being.  "Did 
he  faint,  as  I  want  to?" 

"He  was  tickled  to  death.  I  think  he's  a  little  con- 
ceited about  it." 

The  two  physicians  chuckled.  But  Muriel  began  to 
cry  softly,  almost  silently,  like  a  simimer  rain.  She  was 
ashamed  and  hid  her  face  in  her  handkerchief.  She 
heard  that  impudent  voice  at  the  door: 

235 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Say,  who  t'e  hell's  been  hoitin'  me  lady  frien'?" 

She  looked  up  and  saw  Happy,  not  in  the  costume  he  had 
worn,  but  in  a  nightgown.  He  had  been  stripped  for  the 
examination  and  he  had  decided  to  stay  here  to  be  made 
ready  for  the  inquisition. 

Muriel  ran  to  him,  dropped  on  one  knee,  and  clasped 
him  in  her  arms  as  if  he  were  a  crippled  child  of  her 
very  own.  He  caressed  her  awkwardly  and  smiled  with 
pride  as  she  mumbled,  "Oh,  Happy!  Happy!" 

"  Dat's  me  name,  darUn'.  Say,  I've  just  found  out  I'm 
built  Uke  a  motor-car.  Cheese!  I  never  knowed  dey 
was  so  much  machinery  inside  o'  me.  But  I  gotta 
back  into  de  garadge  and  be  coupled  up  better.  Dis 
big  old  stoigeon  here  is  goin'  at  me  wit'  a  ax  and  a  monkey- 
wrench  and  take  me  all  apart  and  put  me  togedder  again. 
It's  grand.  When  I  come  out  I'U  be  able  to  lick  anybody 
dat  can  make  me  weight." 

"You  poor,  brave,  blessed  child,  to  think  what  you 
must  go  through!" 

"  It  ain't  what  a  guy  goes  t'rough  so  much  as  where  he 
comes  out  at,"  said  the  gutter  philosopher.  "What  I'm 
goin'  t'rough  every  day  ain't  no  cinch,  and  it  ain't  gettin' 
me  nowheres." 

But  Muriel  could  not  smile.  Happy  stared  at  her  with 
a  new  pride.  It  was  encouraging  to  be  felt  sorry  for  by 
such  a  being  as  this.     It  was  he  that  tried  to  comfort  her. 

"Dey's  one  t'ing  I'd  like  to  ast  you,  darlin',"  he  said. 
"  Before  dey  begin  woik  on  me  insides  dey  put  me  out  wit' 
some  kind  of  gas.  If  you  was  to  be  wit'  me  and  kind  o' 
hold  on  to  me  hand  and  let  me  down  easy  I — I'd  not  be  so 
scared.  I  don't  want  to  git  scared.  I'd  like  me  mudder 
dere,  but  she's  had  trouble  enough,  and  she'd  be  scareder 
dan  what  I  was.      Maybe  you  wouldn't  like  it  yourself." 

"I'll  be  there,"  said  Muriel. 

"Fine  for  you!  I  knew  I  could  depend  on  you.  De 
game  begins  to-morra  momin'  oily." 

"I'll  be  there,"  said  Muriel.  ~ 

236 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"And  say — whisper!"  He  glared  at  the  bystanders 
till  they  turned  away,  then  he  lowered  his  voice  and  set 
his  big  mouth  against  her  little  ear  and  murmured: 
"When  I  git  straight  I'm  not  gona  be  no  shoftire.  Ump- 
mrtm.  I'm  gona  be  a  stoigeon.  I'll  have  a  office  like  dis 
and  I'll  straighten  out  everybody  I  can  git  me  hands 
on.  I'll  make  a  lot  o'  money,  too,  and  if — if  nobody 
ain't  ast  you  to  marry  him  by  dat  time,  why  I'U — I'll — 
I'll  take  care  of  you  meself." 

"Splendid!"  said  Muriel. 

Then  the  nurse  took  him  by  the  hand  and  he  was  led 
away. 

When  he  had  gone  Muriel,  in  a  swirl  of  confused  emo- 
tions, assailed  the  surgeon: 

"  Promise  me  you'll  be  gentle  with  him.  Don't  hurt  him 
any  more  than  you  have  to.  And  if  there's  anything — 
anything  that  will  help  him  or  make  him  comfortable  or 
happy  let  him  have  it — no  matter  what  it  costs.  Under- 
stand, no  matter  what  it  costs.     I  have  the  money." 

"I  understand.     I  promise." 

Then  she  left  him,  feeUng  that  she  had  lent  the  boy  to 
the  little  death  of  science  and  wondering  how  he  should  be 
returned,  if  at  all.  She  leaned  rather  heavily  on  Worth- 
ing's arm,  and  she  said: 

"Won't  Mr.  Merithew  be  happy  when  he  learns  that 
his  money  has  saved  the  Italian  boy,  and  paid  for  Happy 
besides!" 

Worthing  made  a  choking  sotmd  that  she  mistook  for 
assent. 

"I  must  telephone  poor  Mr.  Merithew  the  minute  I 
leave  the  Angelilli.  I  had  an  engagement  with  him  and 
broke  it,  just  as  I  did  yoiu^,  without  sending  him  word, 
I  seem  to  be  always  doing  the  most  dreadful  things." 

On  the  way  back  to  Batavia  Street  to  the  Angelillo 
home.  Dr.  Worthing  was  his  gruffest  self  again.  Muriel 
made  up  her  mind  that  he  was  a  person  of  the  most  un- 
accotmtable  moods. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

CLOTHES  need  clothes.  The  fig-leaf  demanded  the 
flax-plant,  and  the  flax-plant  called  for  the  mulberry- 
tree  and  its  denizens. 

Maryla  had  thought  that  if  she  could  only  possess  one 
beautiful  gown  she  would  be  content.  She  paid  herself 
as  the  price  and  found  that  she  had  only  paid  an  instal- 
ment on  an  indefinite  obligation.  For  that  handsome 
gown  cried  out  for  shoes  and  stockings,  gloves,  and  a  hat 
and  a  cloak  and  a  coach.  And  that  gown  would  not  work 
all  of  the  time;  and  it  would  not  alternate  with  shabby 
clothes. 

People  in  town  cannot  be  like  the  Mexican  vaquero  who 
spends  a  hundred  dollars  on  a  lifelong  hat  and  goes  bare- 
foot in  ragged  breeches.  So  Maryla  was  already  perishing 
for  more  dresses. 

But  she  did  not  teU  Perry  Merithew  so.  When  she 
could  not  wear  her  finery  she  made  excuses  for  staying 
indoors  rather  than  sober  the  Merry  Perry  with  prayers 
for  further  outlay. 

This  was  to  her  credit  with  Perry,  for  he  had  found  the 
cry  for  money  increasingly  intolerable.  It  is  the  least 
attractive  song  that  Love  can  sing.  Cupid  is  no  cash-boy 
to  come  at  the  word.     He  hates  it. 

Having  got  one  gown,  the  lowly  Maryla  thought  she 
would  be  happy  with  just  one  more.  "Pet"  Bettany, 
who  was  drifting  downward  from  the  highest  cloud  as 
Maryla  was  pushing  up  from  the  loam,  could  have  told 
her  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  gowns  enough.  Pet 
Bettany  had  dozens  of  gowns,  she  owed  for  a  score,  she  had 

238 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

even  paid  cash  for  some  of  them,  and  still  she  voiced 
the  wail  far  older  than  Flora  McFlimsey's  of  Madison 
Square. 

Pet  had  told  Perry  that  night  at  the  Yacht  Club,  "All 
women  are  grafters."  She  had  grafted  her  father  almost 
into  his  grave,  her  mother  into  gilded  insolvency,  and 
every  dressmaker  and  rmlHner  she  could  wheedle  into  as 
large  an  account  as  he  would  credit  her  with. 

And  still  she  had  nothing  to  wear.  She  had  * '  borrowed '  * 
money  from  women  and  from  men ;  she  had  pawned  family 
jewels  to  throw  a  Httle  sop  to  her  creditors.  Now  the 
impertinent  hoimds  were  whining  for  money  and  were  re- 
fusing to  drag  her  dog-cart  farther. 

When  she  saw  Perry  Merithew  sHp  bills  into  the  hand  of 
Muriel  Schuyler  she  rejoiced.  She  saw  a  chance  to  collect 
a  Httle  hush-money.  She  never  dreamed  that  the  cash 
was  meant  for  charity.  That  did  not  resemble  the 
Perry  Merithew  she  knew  at  all.  When  she  spoke  to  him 
he  called  her  a  Httle  blackmailer  and  refused  to  lend  her  a 
penny.  She  laughed  ominously  and  prepared  to  bide  her 
time. 

And  then  she  was  thrown  into  a  state  of  desperation. 
She  was  invited  to  spend  a  fortnight  as  one  of  the  sixty 
guests  at  one  of  the  Newport  palaces  during  tennis  week 
and  horse-show  week.  Also  there  wotild  be  limcheons, 
teas,  and  tea  dances,  and  there  wotild  be  big  dinners  and 
SardanapaHan  nights.  These  things  needed  many  cos- 
tumes, and  they  must  aU  be  new. 

More  harrowing  still,  the  great  Mrs.  NicoUs,  whose  son, 
"Winnie,"  Pet  was  conspiring  to  make  a  bridegroom 
malgre  lui — ^the  great  Mrs.  NicoUs  announced  that  she 
would  give  a  wonderful  costume  fete  to  christen  the  new 
ball-room  she  had  added  to  her  chateau. 

Mysteriously  the  newspapers  learned  the  details  and 
pubHshed  them  ten  days  before.  The  ball-room  was  to 
be  presented  as  the  depths  of  the  sea,  with  a  blue-green 
satin  ceiHng  for  the  top  of  the  water  and  a  ship's  hull 

239 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

floating  in  it.  Grottoes  and  cliffs  would  furnish  the  walls, 
and  the  guests  were  requested  to  appear  as  some  form  of 
sea  life — mermen,  mermaids,  mer-old-maids,  nymphs, 
fishes,  lobsters,  eels,  flowers,  shells,  froth. 

The  proclamation  set  fancy  afire. 

Mrs.  NicoUs  included  the  Bettanys,  m^re  et  fille,  in  the 
bead-roll  of  invitation,  an  intensely  exclusive  list  of  only 
five  himdred  names. 

Mrs.  T.  J.  B.  sighed  over  the  cardboard  and  said:  "I 
don't  know  whether  the  old  cat  meant  this  as  a  compliment 
or  as  a  challenge.  Pet  darling,  we  can't  dream  of  going, 
of  course.  She  knows  we  can't  afford  clothes  to  wear  on 
the  street,  to  say  nothing  of  submarine  flummery.  You 
won't  mind  missing  it,  will  you?" 

And  Pet  had  answered:  "Not  the  least  dambit,  dear. 
I  don't  care  any  more  for  that  than  I  do  for  my  right  eye. 
I'll  go  if  I  have  to  sell  my  left  leg." 

"But  how,  dear  child?     How?" 

"Watch  my  work,"  said  Pet.  "If  I  can't  beg,  borrow, 
or  steal  some  duds  I'll  go  as  Venus  rising  from  the  sea." 

Miss  Bettany  set  out  like  a  gorgeous  panhandler  to  beg 
a  dole  from  some  of  her  tailors.  She  swallowed  her  pride 
and  truckled  to  people  whom  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances, to  use  her  own  phrase,  she  "wouldn't  wipe  her 
boots  on." 

But  the  Bettanys  were  notoriously  in  hot  water.  Their 
commercial  rating  was  of  the  lowest,  their  liabilities  of  the 
highest.  Even  tailors  reach  a  point  where  credit  cannot 
be  extended.  Pet  had  a  bad  half-day  of  it.  She  felt  a 
sincere  contempt  for  tradesmen  who  insisted  upon  col- 
lecting. 

She  tried  to  make  up  with  Dutilh,  with  whom  she  had 
quarreled  a  year  before  because  he  threatened  to  sue  her. 
With  a  heart  full  of  bile  and  of  guile  she  sauntered  in  and 
told  the  icy  wretch  that  she  had  decided  to  forgive  him 
and  give  him  another  chance. 

240 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Dutilh,  with  an  ominous  sweetness,  answered:  "I  am 
so  glad!  I  am  desperately  in  need  of  cash.  Did  you 
bring  the  check  with  you?" 

She  haughtily  damned  his  impudence  and  walked  out. 
Her  heart  was  black  with  rage  and  shame  and  baffled 
desire. 

Then  her  heart  leaped.  There  was  a  Providence,  after 
all.  In  a  climip  of  vehicles  held  up  by  a  traffic  policeman 
she  saw  a  limousine  of  a  hvmter's-green  color.  Lolling 
inside,  reading  a  book  as  if  in  his  own  library,  was  Perry 
Merithew. 

Pet  opened  the  door,  got  in,  sat  down  beside  him,  and 
gurgled  like  a  sweet  little  girl: 

"Hello!" 

Perry  was  startled,  then  amused,  then  embarrassed. 
He  was  on  his  way  to  Maryla. 

"Take  me  for  a  little  ride,  there's  a  darling,"  said  Pet. 
"Better  yet,  take  me  home  and  I'll  give  you  a  drink." 

"Thanks,"  said  Perry.     "I'm  late  to  another  date." 

"With  Muriel  Schuyler?"  said  Pet.  "Take  me  along 
for  chaperon." 

"  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake,  stop  it !"  said  Perry.  "  I'U  drop 
you  at  yoiu"  house." 

"You  can't  shake  me  so  easily,"  said  Pet,  putting  her 
feet  up  on  the  Httle  flap-seat. 

He  sighed  and  shook  his  head  in  helpless  fury. 

"Perry,  boy,"  she  said,  "I'm  frantic.  I've  got  to  make 
a  raise  somewhere." 

"So  have  I.  I've  just  been  trying  to  touch  a  few  friends 
myself.  Everybody  is  poorer  than  I  am,  and  I'm  a 
pauper." 

"You  have  money  enough  for  Muriel  Schuyler." 

Perry  gnashed  his  teeth,  then  spoke  earnestly : 

"Pet,  I'll  tell  you  the  truth;  I  gave  her  some  money 
for  a  charity." 

"You  being  the  charity,"  Pet  grinned.  "Well,  I'm 
a  charity,  too." 

241 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

*'I  borrowed  the  money  to  give  her." 

"Borrow  me  some." 

"I  promised  to  pay  it  back  to-day  and — ^well,  my  ship 
didn't  come  in." 

"You'll  have  to  do  better  than  that,  old  top." 

"I've  told  you  the  truth,  and  if  you  don't  believe  it 
you  can — " 

"No,  I'll  go  ask  Muriel,"  said  Pet,  grimly.  "Maybe 
she'll  scare  easier  than  you  do.  She's  got  a  reputation  to 
lose.  You  haven't."  He  did  not  speak.  She  pressed 
the  threat.     "I  mean  it.     I'm  going  to  Muriel  Schuyler." 

Perry  laughed.  "You're  a  good  swimmer,  but  I  doubt 
if  you  can  make  it.     She's  on  her  father's  yacht." 

"When  does  she  get  back?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  had  an  engagement  with  her.  She 
chucked  it.  Didn't  even  send  me  a  word.  That  shows 
how  I  stand  with  her.  You're  welcome  to  anything  you 
can  get  out  of  her." 

"I'll  just  call  that  little  bluff,"  said  Pet.  "Let  me 
out." 

"Sha'n't  I  take  you  home?" 

"  This  is  her  street.     Let  me  out." 

Perry  signaled  his  chauffeur  to  draw  up  to  the  curb, 
and  handed  Pet  to  the  pavement  with  a  low  sweep  of  his 
hat.     He  laughed  ironically  as  she  walked  away  fuming. 

She  rang  the  Schuyler  bell,  and  received  a  confirmation 
of  Perry's  words.  She  stalked  home  in  a  daze  of  cold  ire. 
She  had  her  heart  set  on  the  fortnight  at  Newport,  but 
she  told  her  mother  that  she  would  give  all  the  other  nights 
and  ten  years  off  her  life  for  a  chance  to  glitter  at  Mrs. 
NicoUs's  memorable  ball  Au  Fond  de  la  Mer.  Pet  called 
it,  "aufond  de  I'enfer." 

'  She  sat  in  her  exquisite  boudoir  in  her  expensive 
inner  sheaths  and  flung  her  expensive  hair-brush  at  her 
costly  Pekingese,  and  bewailed  the  horrors  of  poverty. 
She  called  her  mother  and  father  names.  She  dared 
Muriel  Schuyler  to  show  her  face  in  New  York. 

242 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

When  Miiriel  stole  back  to  town  and  made  haste  not 
to  the  under-sea  festival,  but  to  the  underworld  tragedy. 
Pet  did  not  know  of  her  return. 

Besides,  there  were  other  persons  interested  in  getting 
money  from  Muriel.    And  they  saw  her  first. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

LITTLE  Mrs.  Ida  Ganley,  the  wife  of  the  stuss-dealer 
d  who  got  most  of  Nunzio's  money,  was  one  of  those 
strange  submarine  curiosities  that  the  cabaret  craze 
dredged  up  from  the  depths  of  an  otherwise  hopeless  ob- 
scurity. ' 

The  public  whim  for  enduring  singing  and  dancing  with 
its  meals  and  turning  every  restaurant  into  a  vaude\411e 
house,  had  given  emplojinent  and  publicity  to  thousands 
of  singers  and  dancers  whom,  else,  the  dark  unfathomed 
caves  of  oblivion  would  have  had  to  bear.  Personalities 
too  frail  to  have  stood  the  calciimi  of  the  stage  passed 
muster  among  the  tables  or  on  the  platforms  while  the 
dishes  clattered. 

And  so  Mrs.  Ganley,  wife  of  a  cheap  gambler,  and 
hitherto  known  only  among  the  police  as  a  pickpocket, 
was  now  "an  artist,"  and  was  actually  receiving  pay  for 
diverting  attention  from  the  cuisine  to  her  own  charms. 

She  had  not  as  yet  worked  up  to  a  down-town  restau- 
rant; she  sang  among  the  higher  nimierals  in  an  establish- 
ment purveying  chop-suey  chiefly,  and  other  Chinese 
fodder.  It  happened  to  be  near  the  apartment-house 
where  Perry  Merithew  had  established  Maryla — a  region 
too  far  north  for  his  friends  to  penetrate.  Perry  was 
gradually  educating  Maryla  up  to  the  better  restaurants. 
He  had  not  yet  educated  her  up  to  the  maxixe  or  to  a 
sense  of  the  joy  of  life.  Her  somber  beauty  still  enthralled 
him,  and  her  childlike  wonder  at  the  tritest  things.  Also 
she  was  glowing  with  the  bliss  of  wearing  that  wonderful 
gown  from  Paris  via  Dutilh's. 

244 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Maryla  watched  Red  Ida  with  amazement  as  the  little 
demon  leaned  against  the  piano  in  the  middle  of  the 
crowded  tables  and  sang  a  highly  moral  song  with  this 
refrain  of  imusually  keen  philosophy : 

Daon't  blay-mit  tall  on  Broar-dway; 

Yew  have  yewrself  to  blame. 
Daon't  shame  the  name  of  dear  axAd  Broar-dway, 

For  in  any  other  town  it's  [gulp]  just  the  same. 
Yewr  life  is  whawt  yew  ma-kit, 

When  yew  try  to  toin  nigh  tin  tew  day, 
And  if  yew  should  be  dineeng  with  a  lit-tU  stran-jar, 
Red  lights  seem  tew  warn  yew  of  a  dan-jar, 

Doan't  blay-mit  tall  on  Broar-dway! 

Perry  Merithew  was  bored  by  this  didactic  lyric,  in 
which  Maryla  found  deep  solemnities.  He  found  more 
pleasure  in  the  encore,  a  more  Ida-esque  satire  of  a  young 
man  who  took  his  girl  out  for  a  bright  evening  and  bought 
her  an  ice-cream  soda,  winning  from  her  this  withering 
comment : 

If  that's  your  idea  of  a  wonderful  time, 
Take  me  home! 
You  came  out  with  a  one-dollar  bill; 
You've  got  eighty  cents  left  of  it  still. 
If  that's  your  idea  of  a  wonderful  time, 
Take  me  home! 

That  was  not  Perry  Merithew 's  idea  of  a  wonderful 
time,  but  even  Red  Ida  could  see  that  he  was  having  diflfi- 
culty  in  spending  much  money  on  Maryla. 

The  next  day  Red  Ida  was  telling  her  gtmman  consort 
of  Perry  Merithew's  waste  of  cash  and  courtesy.  The 
gunman  was  a  very  liberal-minded  man  and  made  no 
petty  objections  to  his  wife's  extra-mural  adventures. 

And  then  Nunzio  Mangianello  appeared  with  the  sen- 
sational news  of  the  reapparition  of  the  millionairess  and 
her  amazing  display  of  thousand-dollar  bills  and  diamonds. 

Red  Ida  was  at  home  when  he  arrived  and  she  was  as 
delighted  as  if  the  stolen  child  were  her  own. 

245 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

She  was  consumed  with  anxiety  as  to  the  name  of  the 
rich  "dame."  Nunzio  could  not  enlighten  her.  But  Ida 
was  willing  to  bet  that  if  she  laid  eyes  on  her  she  would 
know  who  she  was.  She  was  not  only  a  close-  student  of 
the  society  columns  and  the  picture  supplements  in  which 
women  of  wealth  rival  actresses  and  politicians  in  the 
frequence  of  their  appearance,  but  also  Ida  was  a  singer 
in  the  cabarets  where  at  times  the  stroUing  aristooracy 
condescended  to  dine  and  even  to  dance. 

Trade  was  dull  in  the  stuss  line  that  afternoon,  and 
when  Nunzio  spoke  of  Mtiriel's  promise  to  return  at 
three  o'clock  Red  Ida  and  her  man  decided  to  stroll  down 
to  Batavia  Street  and  give  her  a  look-over. 

Ida's  husband  had  been  growling  about  the  perfection 
of  the  Italian  Black  Hand  syndicates  and  their  ability 
to  wring  thousands  of  dollars  from  apparent  paupers 
by  the  arts  of  bomb-placing,  child-steaUng,  and  horse- 
poisoning. 

It  seemed  a  shameful  lack  of  American  enterprise  to 
leave  this  rich  field  to  the  "wops." 

As  he  and  his  Ida  sauntered  down  the  crowded  lanes 
that  led  to  Batavia  Street  his  brain  was  shuffling  schemes 
so  dazzling  that  he  dared  not  mention  them  even  to  a 
sprite  so  audacious  as  Ida. 

They  found  their  way  to  Batavia  Street  and  eventually 
a  hackney  motor  rolled  up  and  emitted  a  yoimg  man  who 
helped  out  a  young  woman. 

Red  Ida  knew  Muriel  instantly  from  her  numberless 
pictures  in  the  newspapers.  She  seized  her  man  by  his 
needle-scarred  forearm  and  whispered: 

"My  Gawd,  that's  Muriel  Schuyler!  Her  old  man's 
woith  a  billion  dollars." 

In  the  stormy  brain-cell  of  the  gimman  there  rose  a 
challenging  question: 

"Why  not?" 


RED   IDA  knew  IMuriel  instantly  from  her  numberlea 
Schuyler.     Her  old  man's  woith  a  billion  dollars." 


tures  in  the  newspapers.    She  whispered:   "That's  Muriel 


CHAPTER   XXX 

HERE  was  Jacob  Schuyler's  daughter  in  the  humble 
lane  called  Batavia;  she  was  stepping  out  of  a 
shabby  public  motor  in  front  of  a  shabbier  tenement. 
When  she  disappeared  inside  it,  Ida's  first  comment 
was  on  the  modesty  of  her  dress  and  her  behavior: 

"If  you  didn't  know  her  you'd  never  know  her,  wotild 
ya?  She's  dressed  like  she  was  nobody  at  tall.  My 
Gawd!  if  my  old  man  was  woith  what  hers  is  I'd  be  so 
plastered  with  di'mond  simboists  you'd  think  I  was  a 
three-alarm  fire.     I'd  have  a  poil  in  every  pore." 

But  Shang  was  not  listening.  An  idea  had  come  to  him 
in  a  dazzling  blaze  like  a  wave  of  lightning.  He  felt  that 
it  was  too  big  a  thought  to  think  unaided;  he  must  have 
help,  and  he  sent  his  trembling  hands  searching  through  his 
pockets. 

There  was  something  reptilian  in  Shang.  He  slid 
through  the  underbrush  of  life,  keeping  close  to  the 
ground,  carrying  a  hint  of  clamminess  and  venom. 

Ida  was  a  bird,  a  flitting,  squeaking,  chirping,  malaperts 
song-sparrow.  She  had  always  held  herself  cheap,  sold 
herself  cheap,  or  given  herself  away.  Her  ambition  was 
to  attract  attention,  to  be  known  in  successive  seasons  as 
"the  limit,"  "a  hot  tamale,"  "the  candy  kid,"  "some 
baby." 

She  was  as  common  as  chewing-gum  and  as  restless  as 
her  own  jaws.  She  chewed  her  chewing-gum  with  a  swag- 
ger, open-mouthed,  cud-rolling.  She  was  "out  for  a  good 
time."     Her  motto  was,  "I'll  try  anything  once." 

251 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

She  had  always  been  what  is  called  "wicked,"  and 
there  was  no  more  profit  in  becoming  excited  over  her 
than  in  regretting  the  incorrigible  frivolity  of  every  dirty 
little  English  sparrow.  There  are  thousands  of  her  in 
New  York,  and  in  every  other  town  in  proportion.  They 
flock  along  the  streets,  picking  up  a  precarious  hving, 
little,  noisy,  flippantly  flirting  their  skirts  like  tails,  cocking 
their  heads,  taunting  the  other  birds. 

"When  Ida  walked  abroad  she  was  followed  by  a  cloud  of 
perfume  and  a  trail  of  chatter  of  *T  seen"  and  'T  done" 
and  "I  says  to  him"  and  "he  says  to  me."  When  Ida 
was  putting  on  style  she  said,  "  'N'  I  says  to  him  you  gotta 
choose  between  she  and  I."  She  had  discovered  that  the 
objective  case  is  improper.  So  she  said  "between  she 
and  I,"  which  was  twice  as  elegant  as  the  diction  of  those 
of  her  acquaintance  who  said  "between  her  and  I." 

Poor  little  thing  1  She  tried  so  hard  to  be  somebody 
and  she  realized  that  some  mysterious  quaHty  was  lack- 
ing. Despite  her  passion  for  elegance,  the  very  word 
"elegant"  became  plebeian  in  her  voice.  She  and  her 
sort,  struggling  to  be  ladyHke,  have  driven  the  very  word 
"lady"  almost  into  disrepute. 

Ida  was  petite  without  grace.  She  was  so  slim  that  she 
was  almost  impossible.  Yet  she  did  not  suggest  hunger 
or  emaciation.  She  was  carved  like  a  Chippendale 
spindle;  all  the  curves  were  there,  but  to  the  last  degree 
attenuate. 

She  was  as  lithe  as  a  skein  of  spaghetti,  yet  her  sinuous 
carriage  was  not  graceful;  it  was  rather  disgraceful, 
bantering,  hinting,  accosting. 

Ida  would  have  been  a  perfect  example  of  the  in- 
fluence of  home  life  on  character  if  it  had  not  been  for 
her  virtuous  sister  Edna.  As  Ida  once  weepingly  explained 
to  her  first  police  matron:  "Pa  was  a  btmi,  and  ma  was 
a  mutt,  and  we  was  brang  up  in  Flatbush*  Who  wouldn't 
'a'  went  wrong?" 

Shang  Ganley  was  about  the  only  person  on  earth  that 

252 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Ida  was  afraid  of.  Perhaps  that  was  why  she  loved  hiTTi 
— if  that  elastic  word  can  be  stretched  to  include  the 
loose  and  intermittent  interest  she  took  in  her  husband. 

Shang  differed  from  Ida  in  coming  from  a  respectable 
and  comfortable  home.  Like  her,  he  was  of  the  pure 
American  stock,  which,  contrary  to  a  flattering  legend, 
furnishes  most  of  our  criminals.  Shang's  mother  had 
lax'ished  devotion  upon  him;  his  father  had  spared 
neither  the  rod  nor  good  coimsel.  An  education  had  been 
forced  upon  him  by  the  generous  community.  Truant 
officers  had  seen  to  it  that  he  reached  school  occasionally. 
But  somehow  in  the  mystery  of  character  Shang  was  bom 
wrong. 

He  came  early  into  conflict  with  the  state.  The  re- 
cording angel  at  the  police  bureau  showed  a  surprising 
knowledge  of  his  deeds. 

Shang's  crimes  had  been  hxmible — sticking  up  a  bar- 
room and  emptying  a  cash-register;  smashing  a  small 
jeweler's  window,  or  rifling  the  pockets  of  a  drunken 
dreamer.  One  desperate  thing  he  had  done — he  had 
killed  young  Dopey  Jahelka.  It  was  in  a  quarrel  over 
Ida,  aggravated  by  a  quarrel  over  the  rebate,  or  "vig- 
gresh, "  that  Dopey  claimed  after  a  game  of  stuss  at 
Shang's  joint.  Dopey  had  called  Shang  various  names  that 
were  probably  deserv^ed,  but  all  the  more  tmbearable. 
He  had  also  held  Shang  by  the  neck  and  jabbed  his 
fingers  in  his  eyes,  and  then  carried  off  all  the  money  he 
could  find. 

Shang  got  him  a  w^eek  later,  after  a  dance,  shot  him  in 
the  back  and  ground  his  heel  in  his  face.  Jahelka  thought 
he  would  recover  and  be  able  to  make  his  own  reprisals; 
he  refused  to  mention  his  assailant  by  name.  He  died 
suddenly,  to  his  great  surprise  and  Shang's  great  relief. 
Shang  married  Ida  so  that  she  could  not  be  forced  to 
testify  against  him. 

The  police  were  so  glad  to  be  rid  of  Jahelka  that  they 
wasted  Uttle  time  trying  to  fasten  the  operation  on 

253 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Shang.  They  annoyed  him,  however,  and  hampered  his 
prosperity. 

But  now  Muriel  Schuyler  suggested  a  way  to  crown  his 
career.  She  was  Opportunity  knocking  at  his  door.  She 
must  be  seized  with  speed  and  yet  with  caution.  He 
must  think  hard  and  fast,  then  jimip. 

He  looked  up  and  down  the  street;  there  was  no  one 
in  sight  except  the  driver  of  the  motor  that  had  brought 
Miss  Schuyler,  and  that  man  was  faced  the  other  way. 

Shang  stepped  behind  a  wooden  stoop.  He  was  still 
ransacking  his  pockets  with  shivering  hands.  Failing 
to  find  what  he  sought,  he  turned  his  attention  to  a  large 
signet  ring  he  wore.  He  slipped  it  from  his  finger  and  was 
about  to  lift  the  top  of  it  when  Ida  understood  his  purpose. 

"Ah,  cut  that  out!"  she  snapped  and  tried  to  knock  the 
ring  from  his  hand. 

He  turned  on  her  with  a  flash  of  ferocity  so  Uke  the  snarl 
of  a  hyena  that  she  fell  back.  He  raised  a  hinged"  hd  in 
the  ring  and  disclosed  a  tiny  compartment  filled  with 
white  powder.  He  shook  some  of  it  out  on  the  back  of 
one  wrist  and  giggled. 

"Have  a  little  snow?" 

"Nagh!"  she  sneered,  with  disgust. 

"You  don't  know  what's  good  for  you,"  he  urged  with 
the  proselytizing  fervor  of  the  true  victim. 

She  turned  away  and  he  raised  his  wrist  to  his  nose 
and  snuffed  up  the  drug  with  nostrils  quivering  greedily 
as  a  terrier's. 

Immediately  he  was  renewed.  His  face,  tortured  with 
craving,  grew  human  again.  He  put  back  his  ring  and 
tapped  it  gratefully.  "The  cold  medicine's  the  only 
t'ing  when  you  got  a  job  of  t'inkin'  on." 

"It's  got  you  cold  all  right,  all  right,"  Ida  gnmibled. 
"You  used  to  sell  it  and  make  a  lot  o'  money;  now  you 
sniff  it  all  yourself." 

He  smiled  with  angelic  superiority. 

''Don't  you  worry  about  money,  honey.     I'm  workin' 

254 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

out  a  little  scheme  dat  '11  make  more  money  dan  all  de 
coke-shovers  and  heroin-rollers  ever  dreamed  of.  If  it 
don't  make  us  a  million  dollars  apiece  I'll  pay  you  a — a 
himdred  t'ousan'  dollars  forfeit." 

"If  you'll  forfeit  me  me  car-fare  home  I'll  be  satisfied," 
said  Ida. 

"You  come  along  wit'  me  and  I'll  ride  you  home  in  a 
axeaplane." 

She  went  with  him  in  a  kind  of  dogged  devotion,  not  to 
share  his  glory,  but  to  support  him  when  the  rosy  clouds 
should  change,  as  always,  to  iron  clamps  about  his  head. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

IDA'S  legs  were  so  brief  and  her  skirts  so  tight,  and 
Shang's  flight  so  rapid,  that  she  had  almost  to  hop 
sparrow-like  to  keep  pace  with  him. 

He  led  her  to  James  Street  and  ttimed  southeast.  He 
paused  at  a  "Sporting  Barber  Shop"  in  a  sharp-nosed 
building  shaped  like  an  ax-head,  and  nodded  to  a  handsome 
youth  just  arisen  from  the  barber's  chair.  It  was  "Pepsin 
Chu,"  a  strange  compound  of  races.  His  father  had  been 
a  Chinese  importer  with  a  shop  in  Mott  Street,  a  quiet 
and  dignified  person  with  a  weakness  for  playing  pie  gow. 
When  the  Italians  began  to  crowd  into  the  Chinese  dis- 
trict he  had  found  a  neighboring  Calabrian  girl  attrac- 
tive and  she  found  him  fascinating  in  a  terrifying  sort  of 
way.  The  opposition  to  such  alliances  had  died  out  with 
their  increasing  frequence,  and  the  condescension  was 
probably  as  great  on  one  side  as  the  other.  In  any 
case,  the  young  wife  was  well  housed  and  she  wept  when 
her  husband  was  hatcheted  to  death  in  the  war  of  the 
Four  Brothers  with  the  On  Leon  Tong.  Mrs.  Chu  Jett, 
nie  Margherita  Tiuiello,  was  left  with  a  curious  child  of 
almond  eyes  and  olive  skin.  She  abandoned  him  to  the 
Foiir  Brothers  to  take  care  of  and  vanished  with  a  Nea- 
politan youth  who  sang  stale  fish  for  sale  in  a  luscious 
tenor. 

"  Pepsin"  grew  up,  anyhow.     He  acquired  his  nickname 

from  being  arrested  at  the  age  of  seven  in  full  flight  with 

'a  jar  of  pepsin  gum  that  he  had  stolen  from  a  fruit-stand. 

Shang  nodded  to  Pepsin  to  follow  him,  and  Pepsin 
dropped    alongside,    casting    his    glances    like    fish-Unes 

256 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

toward  Ida,  who  flirted  perilously  back  at  him  aroiind  the 
profile  of  her  spouse.     Finally  Pepsin  nudged  Shang. 

"Why'n't  you  tip  me  off  to  the  new  baby?" 

"New  nothin';   it's  me  wife!" 

"I  ain't  particular,"  said  Pep. 

"I  don't  care  who  I  meet,  neither,"  laughed  Ida,  and 
this  served  for  an  introduction. 

Shang  strode  along  wdth  his  head  in  the  clouds,  seeing 
nothing,  hearing  nothing. 

Shang  was  looking  for  "Kill  Papa,"  a  Greek  friend  of 
his.  He  marched  up  and  down  Cherry  Street  from  "The 
Jolly  Albanians"  to  the  " Xenodocheion  of  Gortyna." 
He  glanced  into  various  shops  with  signs  in  letters  that 
would  have  made  Socrates  feel  at  home  till  he  tried  to  rec- 
ognize the  words.  He  would  have  understood  that  a 
lodging-house  was  still  fiENOAOXEION ;  but,  never 
having  heard  of  coffee,  what  would  he  have  made  of  a 
KA<I>$ENEION?  Never  having  dreamed  of  cigars,  what 
would  he  have  expected  to  buy  in  a  "smoke  shop" 
(KAnNORQAEION)? 

Shang  quested  among  the  Greeks  till  he  stumbled  across 
his  man,  a  brutally  beautiful  demigod-satyr  whose  real 
name  was  AchUles  Papademetrakopoulos,  a  leisurely 
Brooklyn  Bridge  of  a  name,  shortened  by  his  friends  to 
the  startling  title  of  "Kill  Papa." 

Achilles  was  a  bad  Greek.  He  had  been  started  wrong. 
His  father  was  a  florist,  like  so  many  American  Greeks, 
and  the  boy  had  acquired  in  that  ruthless  trade  the  habit 
of  destruction. 

Now  Achilles  had  a  "fleet"  of  his  own.  It  was  not  in 
any  sense  a  rival  of  the  older,  more-established  gangs  like 
the  Hudson  Dusters,  the  Gophers  of  Hell's  Kitchen,  or 
the  grim  White  Roses.  But  it  was  young  yet.  It  was 
knowTi  as  an  Association,  and  it  gave  occasional  pubHc 
excursions  and  dances,  at  which  some  one  was  pretty  apt 
to  be  shot  up  or  down. 

He  foimd  AchUles  buying  his  groceries  at  a  Zacharo- 

257 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

plasteion  and  persuaded  him  to  go  to  the  back  room  of  a 
dingy  Kaffeneion. 

Achilles  did  not  drink  or  smoke  or  snuff,  nor  did  he 
gamble.  He  had  no  small  \aces  except  picking  his  teeth 
in  public. 

However,  he  was  a  gracious  host,  and  asked,  magnifi- 
cently: "What  '11  it  be?  A  Kttle  Chian  wine  for  the 
lady?" 

"A  lot  o'  beer  for  the  lady,"  said  Ida. 

"The  same  for  mine,"  said  Pep;    "wit'  a  low  collar." 

Shang  declined  to  mix  his  stimulants,  and  as  soon  as 
the  doleful  attendant  had  moved  out  to  the  sidewalk  he 
outlined  his  great  dream. 

Shang  described  Muriel's  wealth  and  her  importance 
to  her  parents.  It  made  him  furious  that  she  should  ex- 
pect to  come  down  here  with  five  thousand  dollars  to 
spend  on  a  Dago  brat.  Shang  said  that  he  could  buy  a 
million  of  them  for  ten  cents. 

Achilles's  toothpick  reflected  his  intense  meditation. 
It  drooped  from  his  upper  Hp  when  he  felt  helpless  before 
this  opportunity  and  realized  the  hazards;  it  was  like  a 
tiny  mast  when  he  thrust  his  lower  lip  out  with  resolution. 
He  said — and  spoke  the  same  speech  as  Pep  Chu  and  Shang 
Ganley,  since  he  had  learned  the  same  language  in  the 
same  streets: 

"You're  dead  right,  Ganley.  We  got  a  right  to  take 
dat  money  away  from  dat  baby  before  she  spends  it  fool- 
ish. And  we  gotta  learn  her  to  stay  up-town  in  her  own 
ward.  Besides,  de  dope  I  read  in  de  papers  says  her  old 
man  stole  his  money  off  de  common  people,  and  we  got  a 
right  to  take  it  back." 

Pepsin  was  skeptical.  "Fine  and  dandy,  but  how  we 
gona  collect  it?" 

Achilles  carelessly  tossed  off  a  plan  of  campaign.  "A 
daylight  hold-up  and  a  taxicab  get-away  looks  good  to 
me." 

258 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Shang  seconded  him:  "Dat's  what  I  was  just  gona  tell 
you."  Like  a  true  author,  he  was  afraid  to  lose  the 
credit  of  his  invention. 

But  it  was  not  to  the  liking  or  the  prestige  of  the 
tooth-picking  Achilles  to  accept  a  scheme  from  one  of  his 
retainers  without  bettering  it. 

His  thick  black  eyebrows  met  and  jostled  together  like 
two  big  caterpillars  disputing  a  leaf. 

Eureka!  The  Schuyler  girl  had  come  into  this  region 
to  save  a  kidnapped  child.  Why  not  kidnap  the  girl 
as  well  as  her  ransom ;  take  her  away  in  the  taxi  and  call 
for  more  ransom  ? 

Danger  aboimded  in  the  enterprise,  but  hard  times 
compel  hard  tasks,  and  with  these  reform  administrations 
and  unceasing  shake-ups  in  the  departments  it  was  in- 
creasingly difficult  to  earn  a  dishonest  living  peacefully 
without  interruption. 

To  natures  like  that  of  Achilles,  Pepsin,  and  Shang  two 
things  can  gild  even  refined  gold — danger  in  getting  it  and 
folly  in  spending  it. 

Achilles  with  a  nod  drew  all  the  heads  close  over  the 
table.  He  outlined  his  scheme  and  an  awe  fell  upon  the 
little  conference.  It  would  be  too  risky  to  keep  Muriel 
down-town  till  the  ransom  was  paid.  A  hiding-place  in 
the  suburbs  was  necessary.  The  ItaUans  were  masters  of 
kidnapping  technic.  He  knew  a  former  employee  of  a 
Greek- Italian  olive-oil  importing  company  who  owned  a 
snug  little  hut  in  the  farthest  Bronx  borough.  He  knew 
also  a  venturesome  taxicab-driver  known  as  "Little  Big 
Blip"  who  would  manage  the  transportation. 

Shang  had  one  captious  comment  on  Achilles's  strata- 
gem. 

"It  looks  easy,  Kill,  once  we  gotter;  but  how  we  gona 
gitter?" 

Achilles  said:  "Dat's  easy.  You  on'y  have  to  invite 
her  to  your  place  and  hold  her  till  midnight." 

Ida  let  out  a  snicker  of  ridicule.     The  men  snapped 

259 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

glances  of  impatient  rebuke  at  her  and  turned  back  to 
Shang,  who  spoke  with  becoming  modesty:  "T'anks  for 
de  comp'ment,  Kill.  But  if  I  was  to  ast  a  dame  like  dat 
to  folly  me  home  I  ain't  sure  she'd  go.  What  do  you 
t'ink,  babe?" 

Ida  whooped  with  joy.  "Follow  you  home,  honey? 
Why,  at  your  foist  woid  she'd  yip  out  a  holler  could  be 
hoid  a  mile.  What  do  yous  cheap  skates  think  that 
goil  is,  anyway — a  shoitwaist  hand?  She's  a  lady,  she 
is,  and  she  don't  hardly  speak  to  nothin'  less  'n  a  dook 
or  a  noil,  unless  'n  he's  a  waiter  or  a  butler.  None  of 
yous  guys  looks  like  nothin'  but  what  you  are." 

Pep  would  have  handed  her  the  back  of  his  hand  if  her 
husband  had  not  been  present  and  alive  to  his  privilege. 
Achilles  turned  to  her  and  said,  graciously: 

"Den,  little  lady,  it  looks  like  it  was  up  to  you." 

"Up  to  me?"  said  Ida.     "What's  up  to  me?" 

"To  get  dis  Schuyler  dame  to  Allen  Street." 

Insolent  as  a  cat  to  a  king,  Ida  leered  at  him  and 
waved  him  aside  with  a  sUght  push  of  the  hand  as  if  he 
were  a  glass  of  milk,  adding  the  classic  repartee: 

"Don't  make  me  laugh     me  lip's  chapped." 

Achilles  scowled  black,  gathered  his  big  hand  into  a  fist 
like  a  mallet,  and  turned  pale,  but  the  spasm  passed  and 
he  nodded  to  Shang. 

"Convince  her,  Shang." 

Shang  rounded  on  Ida.  "Say,  say,  say!  You  do  what 
Kill  tells  you  to  do." 

"Since  when  do  I  take  orders  from  liim?"  said  Ida. 

"Well,  den,  take  'em  from  me." 

"I  don't  take  orders  from  nobody.     I  ain't  a  waiter." 

Shang  was  frantic  at  this  public  humiliation.  "You 
take  orders  from  me  or — or — " 

"Or  what?"  she  demanded,  her  chewing-gum  poised 
in  suspense. 

Shang  rose  and  pounced  on  Ida  with  a  groan  of  rage, 
seized  her  slim  ropy  throat  in  his  cold,  lean  hands,  and 

260 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

flung  her  this  way  and  that  till  her  tongue  lolled  out  and 
her  eyes  bulged  red  and  white. 

At  length  Achilles  put  forth  his  hand  and  laughed. 
"She's  had  plenty,  I  guess.  Leave  a  little  for  de  coroner, 
can't  you?" 

Shang  slammed  her  back  into  her  chair,  but  she  would 
have  slid  off  into  the  sawdust  if  Achilles  had  not  caught 
her  and  propped  her  up  like  a  thing  of  straw. 

Just  to  breathe  again  was  of  vital  importance  first,  and 
Ida  swayed,  gasping  till  the  room  stopped  swirling.  She 
was  afraid  and  horribly  ashamed  to  be  disciplined  in  pub- 
lic with  such  pain.  Pluck  came  back  with  life,  and  she 
was  just  reaching  out  for  a  stein  to  smash  over  his  head. 
Achilles  pushed  it  away,  and  she  was  ready  to  burst  into 
tears,  but  Shang  broke  down  first  and  began  to  cry  like 
a  disgusting  slobbering  booby,  pouring  out  his  disappoint- 
ment at  the  cruelty  of  fate  that  always  robbed  him  of  his 
chance.  Nobody  wouldn't  never  do  nothing  for  him, 
not  even  his  wife. 

Ida  wavered,  irresolute,  a  minute,  then  she  sighed,  put 
her  hand  on  her  master's  shoulder,  and  mumbled:  "Nix 
on  the  weeps,  baby;   mother  will  buy  it  what  it  wants." 

She  collected  Shang  into  her  arms  and  he  came  speedily 
out  of  his  grief  into  that  divine  smile  of  his  that  was  al- 
ways her  highest,  and  usually  her  only,  reward. 

He  shook  from  his  long  lashes  the  belated  tears  and 
told  Ida  she  was  his  honey-babe  for  fair,  and  as  soon  as 
they  got  the  Schuyler  money  collected  he  would  string 
her  with  diamonds  till  she  looked  like  Ltma  Park  at  night. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

WHEN  Muriel  and  Worthing  returned  to  the  home 
of  the  Angelilli,  the  elder  Angelillo  had  not  come 
back.  They  waited  a  fretful  hour  for  him.  Then  he 
came  in  with  his  usual  load  of  woe.  He  seemed  to  take 
it  from  his  shoulders  like  a  sack,  and  he  sank  down  on 
a  chair  shaking  his  head  and  breathing  hard. 

His  wife  and  his  daughter  ran  to  him,  babbhng  to- 
gether the  golden  news  of  the  return  of  the  rich  lady 
with  the  ransom  money  for  the  child. 

When  Angelillo  understood,  he  must  weep  awhile  over 
the  new  joy,  and  then  again  over  the  old  grief.  He  had 
whittled  the  demand  down  from  five  thousand  to  twenty- 
five  hundred.  He  had  five  hundred  of  his  own  to  put  in. 
If  they  had  not  already  destroyed  the  boy  he  might 
reach  them  in  time.  To  advertise  would  be  too  slow. 
He  remembered  the  egg  merchant  who  had  hinted  to  him 
once  before  that  he  might  be  of  help. 

He  rose  and  moved  to  the  door. 

Muriel  said:  "You'd  better  take  the  money  with  you. 
You  might  need  it  in  a  hurry." 

"Grazie!    Grazie!"  he  said. 

She  took  from  her  handbag  the  five  bills  and  held  them 
out  to  him.  With  much  apology  he  lifted  two  of  them 
from  the  heap. 

"But  you  said  it  was  twenty-five  hundred." 

"I  have  the  five.  I  like  better  to  pay  a  leetla  bit 
myself  for  my  own  leetla  boy." 

She  understood  his  pride  and  took  back  her  three  bills. 
He  bowed  himself  out  with  two  of  them  and  she  stuffed 
the  others  in  her  handbag. 

262 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"For  the  Lord's  sake,"  Worthing  complained,  "you 
oughtn't  to  cany  as  much  money  as  that  as  loosely  as 
that — even  if  it  is  Merithew's;  even  if  you  can  get  more 
by — by  dancing." 

She  stared  at  him  in  wonderment  as  she  meekly  took 
the  money,  folded  it  up,  and  pushed  it  into  the  bosom  of 
her  gown. 

The  pleasantest  explanation  was  that  he  was  jealous 
of  Merithew.  She  tested  it  by  making  a  few  allusions  to 
Merry  Perry's  goodness  of  heart.  He  writhed  under  the 
test  and  abruptly  got  to  his  feet  to  say: 

"I  think  I'd  better  trail  along  with  Mr.  AngeHllo.  He 
might  need  help  and  I  might  pick  up  a  Hne  on  the  kid- 
nappers.    I'll  be  back  shortly." 

"Good-by-y,"  she  murmured,  with  a  kind  of  taimting 
sweetness. 

She  played  with  the  Angelillo  babies  awhile,  chatted 
with  the  two  mothers,  yawned,  grew  impatient.  Sud- 
denly she  asked  the  women: 

"You  haven't  a — voi  non  avete  uno — er,  telefono,  have 
you?" 

They  had  not.  Doubtless  there  was  a  pay-station  near. 
She  would  run  out  and  run  back  at  once.  Since  they  had 
her  money  now  they  felt  no  alarm  at  her  departure. 

She  wandered  for  several  blocks  before  she  found  a  small 
drug-store  with  a  booth  so  constructed  as  to  magnify  all 
sotinds  from  within  and  without. 

She  spent  a  long  time  in  the  telephone-pursuit  of  Mr. 
Merithew  without  getting  him.  It  was  in  the  first  days  of 
his  honeymoon  with  Maryla.  He  was  afraid  that 
Aphra  Shaler  would  ptirsue  him,  and  had  told  his  man 
to  tell  any  inquiring  lady's  voice  that  he  had  left  town  for 
two  weeks. 

As  Muriel  left  the  booth  she  remembered  Maryla, 
and  called  up  the  dressmaking  establishment  to  ask  how 
she  was.  The  telephone-girl  at  Dutilh's  answered  with  an 
ironic  tang: 

263 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"She  is  no  longer  with  us." 

"Really!    Then  may  I  speak  to  Mr.  Dutilh?" 

Dutilh  broke  forth  into  cries :  "In  Heaven's  name  where 
have  you  been?  You  made  a  date  for  a  fitting  ten  days 
ago." 

"Too  bad.  I  was — I  was  called  out  of  town.  I'll  be 
in  later.     I  just  wanted  to  ask  you — " 

"And  by  the  way,  I  just  got  in  a  gown  that  we've 
named  'Muriel.'  It  was  created  in  heaven  for  you.  I 
could  have  sold  it  six  times,  but  I  hid  it." 

"Thanks,  but — well,  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  Miss 
Sokalska." 

"Miss  So-what-ska?" 

"Mary la  Sokalska.  The  girl  I  recommended  to  you. 
You  gave  her  a  position.     How  is  she  getting  along?" 

"Splendidly,  I  imagine.  She  left  us  between  two  days, 
and  didn't  ask  for  her  back  pay,  but  sent  a  boy  with  the 
cash  for  a  very  expensive  gown  she  took  a  fancy  to.  She 
must  have  come  into  a  lot  of  money." 

Muriel  did  not  catch  the  cynicism  of  this.  She  exclaimed 
with  joy:  "Isn't  that  splendid?  She  was  so  poor.  I 
found  her  in  the  slimis,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  did.  If  you  find  any  more  slumsters, 
please  leave  'em  there." 

"Really!    I  don't  imderstand." 

"So  much  the  better." 

"I'm  sorry  if  I've  caused  you  any  trouble." 

"Oh,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  don't  feel  that  way  about  it. 
It's  all  in  the  day's  work.  It  gets  some  of  them — "  He 
sighed. 

"What  gets  some  of  whom?" 

"Never  you  mind.  You  come  up  and  see  'Miuiel* 
and  get  your  duds  fitted." 

"I  might  go  see  her  people  and  congratulate  them — ^if 
you  really  think  they  have  got  suddenly  rich," 

"I  wouldn't,  i£  I  were  you." 

"Why?" 

264 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Lord!  what  a  child  it  is  for  asking  questions!  I'm 
busy.     Good-by!" 

Muriel  was  not  offended  by  his  mock  brusquerie,  but 
she  was  puzzled  by  his  mysterious  allusions.  All  the  way 
back  to  the  Angelillo  home  she  was  trying  to  figure  it  out. 
She  lost  her  way  in  the  streets  laid  about  Hke  jumbled 
jackstraws,  but  at  length  she  recognized  Batavia  Street, 
and  was  quickening  her  pace  when  she  heard  her  name 
called. 

"Say,  Miss  Schuyler?" 

"Yes?"  she  said,  turning  in  siuprise  and  staring  at  the 
little  panting  stranger  hastening  after  her. 

"Say,  Hsten,"  said  Red  Ida;  "you're  lookin'  for  the 
little  feller  was  kidnapped,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes.     His  father  is  hunting  for  him  now." 

"Well,  he  won't  find  him,  but  I  know  where  he's  at." 

."You  do?" 

"Uh-huh!" 

"For  Heaven's  sake  tell  me!" 

"You  gotta  come  with  me — this  minute." 

"Just  one  moment  till  I  call  Mr. — Doctor — " 

"  If  you  do  you  lose  um.  Say,  Hsten,  they're  movin'  the 
boy.  The  kidnappers  got  scared  of  that  place  they  kep' 
him  at  and  they're  gona  beat  it  for  somewheres  else." 

"How  did  you  find  out?" 

"I  overhoid  a  soitain  party —  Well,  say  I'll  teU  you 
about  it  on  the  way.  I  come  flyin'  down  to  tell  Mr. 
Angeliller.  I  know  Nunzio,  you  know — he's  a  pa'ticular 
frien'  o'  my  husban's.  But  as  soon  as  I  seen  3'^ou  I  says 
you're  the  best  party.  We  ain't  got  a  minute  to  lose — 
maybe  we'll  lose  him  now  if  we  don't  take  it  on  the  nin." 

She  took  Muriel  by  the  arm  and  dragged  her  along. 

Muriel  began  to  resist  the  peremptoriness  of  this  sum- 
mons. 

"But  what  could  we  two  women  do — against  the  kid- 
nappers?" 

9  26s 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"They  won't  be  there  if  we  hustle.  Besides,  me  hus- 
ban'  is  waitin' — and  he  ain't  afraid  of  nothin'." 

"Then  why  doesn't  he  take  the  boy  himself?" 

"Well,  say,  if  you're  goin'  to  argue  about  it,  all  right, 
all  right.  I  thought  you'd  simpully  be  shriekin'  with 
joy  at  the  news.     I  know  I  done  so." 

The  news  was  indeed  glorious,  yet  there  seemed  to  be 
something  the  matter  with  it.  Muriel  thought  she  ought 
to  be  sending  up  skyrockets,  but  the  powder  was  damp, 
somehow. 

Still,  since  they  were  scotiring  the  town  for  news  of 
Filippo,  it  wovild  be  a  crime  to  neglect  this  chance.  It 
would  be  a  deUcious  thing  to  bring  the  boy  home  in  her 
own  arms. 

She  asked,  breathlessly,  "Is  it  far?" 

"About  a  mile." 

"A  mile!     Couldn't  we  get  a  taxi?" 

"Don't  often  see  one  down  here.  Well,  I'll  be — er — 
There's  one  now.  Ain't  that  luck?  If  he  don't  start  up 
just  's  we  get  there." 

But  he  waited.  He  was  apparently  asleep,  but  his  en- 
gine was  humming.  In  fact,  he  had  refused  two  or  three 
other  foot-sore  wanderers  lost  in  the  cabless  mazes  of  this 
part  of  town.  Ida  biindled  Muriel  in  and  winked  with  her 
farther  eye  at  the  excited  driver  as  she  said: 

"Say,  listen;  shove  this  old  push-cart  up  to  Allen 
Street  fast  's  you  can.  I  don't  remember  the  number. 
I'll  potmd  on  the  window  when  you  get  there." 

The  cab  jumped  forward  so  quickly  that  Ida  was  almost 
left  on  the  curb.  She  scrambled  in,  banged  the  door,  and 
dropped  on  the  seat.  The  taxi  bucked  and  kicked  and 
swerved  and  took  such  chances  between  trucks  and  chil- 
dren that  Muriel  had  no  curiosity  for  anything  but  the 
next  crisis.  They  plunged  through  Roosevelt  Street  to 
the  clamorous  New  Bowery,  into  the  packed  Division 
Street,  and  thence  to  Allen,  a  very  tunnel  of  a  street, 
covered  completely  by  the  Elevated  Road  and  lined  with 

266 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

its  thick-set  iron  posts  planted  in  its  narrow  sidewalks. 
This  iron  grove  was  closely  bordered  on  one  side  with 
high  steep  stoops  crammed  with  merchants  and  mer- 
chandise, and  on  the  other  side  with  dingy  shops. 

Through  the  trestle  overhead  a  Httle  sunlight  pushed 
through  in  slim  shafts,  making  a  sort  of  prolonged  infernal 
pergola  of  the  street.  / 

The  lane  was  too  strait  to  admit  surface-car  tracks  and 
it  was  favored  by  a  slow  and  ugly  truck  traffic.  Now 
and  then  as  the  taxicab  stopped  short  to  escape  a  collision 
or  waited  for  some  knot  to  untangle  itself  to  the  tune  of 
much  profanity  and  much  torment  of  gigantic  horses, 
Muriel  got  an  impression  of  picturesque  squalor,  a  flare  of 
great  red  quilts  hung  out  like  banners,  a  cavernous  junk- 
shop,  a  public  bath-house.  She  had  time  to  read  the 
legend  on  the  "Congregation  Tefereth  Israel,  Established 
5630,"  and  she  thought  that  it  must  be  very  old  indeed, 
not  knowing  that  this  meant  a.d.  1868.  There  had  been 
no  Elevated  Road  here,  and  none  of  the  tenements,  then. 

Muriel's  ears  were  so  abused  by  the  thunder  of  the 
trains  overhead  and  the  pandemonium  of  the  traffic  that 
she  forgot  to  ask  Ida  any  fiuther  details. 

Suddenly  the  girl  began  to  rap  on  the  glass.  She 
motioned  the  driver  to  stop.  She  got  down  and  helped 
Miuiel  to  emerge.     Muriel  hastened  to  say: 

"You  must  let  me  pay  the  man — or,  no,  we'd  better 
keep  him  to  take  the  boy  back.  Just  wait,  won't  you 
please?" 

The  driver  flushed  at  the  graciousness  of  her  pleading 
tone  and  watched  her  run  across  the  street  between 
two  wagons.  It  was  not  a  prepossessing  place,  this  street, 
and  Miuiel  followed  the  impatient  Ida  with  hesitant  gait. 
She  wanted  to  refuse  to  go  on.  She  wanted  to  take  a 
policeman  with  her.  But  the  impetus  of  her  folly  car- 
ried her  along. 

She  glanced  back  anxiously.  The  taxicab  she  had  tol(f 
to  wait  was  moving  ahead. 

267 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

**Look — the  taxi!"  she  gasped.  "He's  not  waiting! 
and  I  hadn't  paid  him!" 

"He's  goin'  to  the  comer  to  toin  round,  I  guess,"  said 
Ida. 

"Oh,"  said  Muriel. 

"Here's  the  place,"  said  Ida,  and,  dropping  back,  took 
Muriel's  arm  and  urged  her  into  a  hallway,  dark,  dirty, 
and  ominous.  Muriel  huddled  herself  together  to  keep 
from  touching  the  grimy  walls.  The  pounding  of  a  train 
thudding  by  on  the  Elevated  rivaled  the  beat  of  her  un- 
easy heart  in  her  ears. 

"Do  we  go  up  these  awftd  stairs?"  she  asked. 

"No'm,"  said  Ida,  "right  on  through." 

Ahead  was  a  cavelike  opening,  giving  on  a  foul  court, 
with  a  view  of  many  tiers  of  fire-escapes,  hundreds  of 
clothes-lines.  Set  in  the  cotu-t  was  a  small  building,  an 
old  pauper  of  a  building,  a  dilapidated,  besotted  building, 
apparently  deserted. 

Muriel  hung  back  and  looked  at  Ida  with  questioning 
anxiety.     Ida  whispered: 

"That's  the  place." 

"I  don't  think  we'd  better  go  alone?" 

"It's  aU  right,  dearie.  The  Dagoes  is  away  and  me 
husban's  waitin'  for  us." 

Shang  Ganley,  indeed,  appeared  at  the  doorway  and, 
lifting  his  hat,  smiled.  Muriel  was  terrified  by  the  smile 
— his  smile  and  Ida's  "dearie."  She  wanted  to  turn  and 
run.  But  she  was  ashamed  to  be  afraid,  and  she  went  on 
to  where  Shang  awaited  her. 

"He's  here,  lady,"  said  Shang. 

"Bring  him  out,  then,"  said  Muriel,  hanging  back. 

"I  ain't   sure  it's  the  right  boy,"  said  Shang,  with 
desperate  inspiration.     "You've  saw  his  pitcher,   'ain't 
you?    Come  and  take  a  peek  at  him.     If  it's  him,  I'U 
bust  in  de  door." 
*    Muriel  paused  a  moment,  then  she  said,  "No." 

"All  right,"  said  Shang.     "I  t'ought  sure  I  had  him. 

268 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Maybe  it  ain't  him  at  all.  On'y  I  hoid  him  cryin'  for  his 
mamma,  and  me  wife  hoid  a  coupla  Dagoes  sayin'  it  was 
him." 

By  yielding  Shang  won.  Muriel  flushed  at  the  abject- 
ness  of  her  cowardice.  She  was  reassured  by  his  failure 
to  insist.  She  was  tormented  by  the  oldest  word  in  the 
world,  "mamma." 

"I'll  go,"  she  said,  and  plunged  forward.  When 
Shang  paused  to  let  her  pass,  she  commanded,  "Lead  the 
way,  please." 

"Sure,  lady,"  he  said,  and  moved  in. 

The  building  had  been  emptied  by  the  Board  of  Health, 
and  its  demolition  ordered,  but  not  begtm.  Shang  went 
ahead,  vanishing  quickly  in  the  gloom.  Muriel  followed 
him,  and  Ida  followed  her. 

"Mind  your  step,  and  don't  make  no  noise,"  said  Ida. 

Suddenly  Muriel  was  enveloped  in  a  cloudy  embrace. 
A  clammy  palm  was  slipped  across  her  mouth,  an  arm 
encircled  her,  clenched  her  tight  against  the  body  of  a 
man.  The  odium  of  this  contact  was  her  first  horror. 
She  fought  with  disgust  instead  of  fear.  She  was  strong. 
She  writhed  loose.  She  struck  out,  and  Shang  fell  like  the 
weakling  he  was.  She  whirled  and  ran  back  toward  the 
Hght.  But  Ida  threw  herself  in  the  way.  Before  she 
could  tear  herself  loose  Shang  was  up  and  groping  for 
her.  Muriel  was  never  one  of  those  women  who  scream 
at  the  first  surprise. 

The  cold  hand  of  Shang  came  across  her  shoulder. 
She  tried  to  scream  now,  but  her  mouth  was  smothered  in 
the  crook  of  an  elbow.  Her  teeth  bit  fiercely  into  the 
sleeve.  There  was  a  little  yelp,  an  oath,  a  cry.  "Pep, 
where  are  you?"  Then  another  big  shadow  blotted  the 
light. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

PEP  ('HU  had  no  patience  with  the  theory  that 
women  are  not  men's  equals.  While  Shang  held 
Muriel,  Pep  attacked  her  as  he  would  have  attacked  a 
man.  He  cursed  her  and  beat  her  with  his  fists.  Her 
hands  went  out  pitifully  to  shield  her,  but  they  were 
smashed  aside.  He  struck  at  her  heart  twice;  then  there 
came  an  earthquake  upper-cut  under  her  chin  where  it 
gleamed  below  Shang's  sleeve.  Muriel  sank,  relaxed, 
in  Shang's  arm  with  such  sudden  listlessness  that  he  fell 
to  his  knees. 

Ida  witnessed  the  sacrilege.  It  was  Ida  that  screamed. 
She  attacked  Pep,  kicking,  biting,  scratching.  He  bor- 
rowed Shang's  prerogative  and,  swinging  his  arm  back, 
flapped  her  against  the  wall.  Then  he  whirled  and  stood 
threatening  the  pit  of  her  stomach  with  a  low  short-arm 
jab.     She  writhed  Hke  a  wounded  snake  before  its  menace. 

"I'll  be  good,"  she  whispered.  "But  don't  hoit  her, 
don't  hoit  Muriel.  She  ain't  used  to  it.  She's  a  swell. 
For  Gawd's  sake,  Shang,  be  careful,  or  it's  the  Chair  for 
yours  for  sure." 

"Ah,  shut  up  and  gimme  somethin'  to  gag  her  wit'." 

She  was  about  to  obey  him,  but  she  shook  herself  and 
groaned: 

"No,  no;  I'm  through." 

"You  do  what  I  tell  you." 

"No!" 

"  Soak  her  one  for  me,  Pep." 

She  faced  the  sledge  of  his  fist  in  a  lockjaw  of  fright 
and  courage: 

270 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"  You  can  croak  me.  but  I'm  through  with  this 
job." 

Shang  roared,  "You  gona  run  call  a  cop,  I  suppose." 

He  carried  his  right  hand  to  the  holster  under  his  arm, 

"Shang!"  she  gasped.  That  he  should  accuse  her  of 
such  treachery  was  worse  than  a  bullet.  She  began  to  cry 
at  the  very  cruelty  of  the  suspicion. 

Pep  lighted  a  match  and  bent  to  stare  at  Miuiel  lying 
with  drooped  head  across  Shang's  knee.  The  men  gazed 
with  admiration. 

"Some  looker,  huh?"  Shang  mimniu'ed. 

Ida  advanced  on  him  with  fury:  "You  be  careful,  you — 
you—" 

Shang  snarled  at  her:  "Ah,  git  ta  hell  out  o'  here. 
You're  no  good  now." 

She  turned  to  go,  sobbing,  one  shoulder  sliding  along 
the  wall,     Shang  called  after  her: 

"Just  one  t'ing,  kid.  If  you  got  any  idea  of  splittin' 
on  dis  job,  you  know  I'll  git  you,  if  I  go  to  de  Chair  twice — 
you  know  dat,  don't  you?  I'll  come  for  you  if  I  have  to 
bust  out  of  de  straps  on  de  Chair,  You  know  dat,  don't 
you?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

Pep  stopped  her.     "Promise?" 

Shang  laughed:  "Don't  promise  me  nuttin',  kid. 
Promise  yovuself  stunpin'.  Leave  her  go,  Pep,  and 
gimme  a  help  wit'  dis  beaut.  When  she  comes  to  she'll 
holler  bloody  moider  if  she  ain't  gagged." 

Pep  Chu  thought  it  a  foolish  thing  to  let  Ida  go,  and 
he  said: 

"If  dat  frail  gets  talkin',  dey's  no  tellin  what  she 
won't  say," 

"Ah,-  don't  worry  about  her,"  said  Shang.  "She's  bug- 
house about  me." 

"Sometimes  dem  loons  gets  cured.  Anyway,  she's 
loose  now,"  said  Pep,  as  he  reluctantly  produced  a  new 

271 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

handkerchief  that  he  never  used,  but  kept  neatly  folded 
VI  his  upper  coat  pocket. 

He  made  a  gag  of  it,  pressed  it  between  Muriel's  lips, 
and  tied  it  behind  her  head.  Then  they  picked  her  up, 
heels  and  neck,  and  carried  her  down  into  the  cellar. 

Up  to  a  few  years  ago  there  were  hundreds  of  such 
underground  horrors  in  New  York.  Some  of  them  were 
lodging-houses  where  people  slept  like  swine,  with  their 
heads  pillowed  on  each  other's  feet  or  knees.  The 
despotic  Board  of  Health  and  the  prying  Fire  Commis- 
sioners cleaned  out  most  of  them,  but  this  one  had  re- 
lapsed since  its  condemnation. 

Pep  carried  a  pocket-flashlight  that  he  used  when  he 
went  calling  professionally.  It  was  not  easy  to  transport 
Muriel's  unresisting  and  tmassisting  body  down  the  steps, 
and  there  were  stumbles  and  lurches  that  terrified  her 
as  she  came  back  to  consciousness.  But  she  could  neither 
speak  nor  scream  nor  even  gasp,  because  of  the  gag. 
They  seated  her  on  an  old  beer-keg  set  against  a 
stanchion.  They  carried  her  hands  back  of  that  and 
tied  them.  Then  they  assui^ed  her  that  she  would  suffer 
no  harm.  But  there  was  no  comfort  in  their  words  or 
their  manner,  and  every  discomfort  in  her  plight. 

Pep  left  now  to  notify  Achilles  that  the  trap  was  sprung. 

Muriel  leaned  against  the  stanchion  in  pain  and  dismay 
and  blind  wonderment.  Her  descent  into  this  pit  was 
as  if  she  had  fallen  into  an  old  well  under  a  sidewalk. 
Suddenly  she  was  there,  bruised,  helpless,  bewildered. 

Shang  sat  and  pondered  her  offensively  as  she  pondered 
him  with  disgust  and  dread.  She  seemed  to  be  all  eyes. 
He  had  hardly  any.  He  smoked  cigarette  after  cigarette, 
sticking  the  stub  of  each  upright  on  a  box  alongside. 
Once  she  saw  him  take  a  small  parcel  from  his  pocket, 
empty  a  powder  on  his  wrist,  and  inhale  it.  She  supposed 
that  he  had  a  bad  cold.  She  did  not  wonder,  if  he  lived 
in  such  a  place  as  this. 

Shang  mused  over  her  through  the  screening  smoke  of  a 

272 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

dozen  cigarettes.  He  tried  to  speak  to  her,  but  could 
find  nothing  to  say.  Suddenly  he  started;  he  was  re- 
membering Nunzio's  report  that  she  had  five  thousand 
dollars  with  her.  He  looked  about.  He  ran  up  the 
steps,  searched  the  hall,  and  found  the  handbag  she  had 
dropped  in  the  scuffle.  There  was  no  money  in  it  except 
a  few  small  bills  and  some  change.  She  must  have  the 
five  thousand  somewhere  about  her. 

He  returned  to  his  place  on  the  box  and  tossed  the  hand- 
bag into  her  lap.  He  was  thinking  vigorously.  He  was 
thinking  of  what  he  could  do  with  five  thousand  dollars. 
If  he  had  that  he  could  leave  the  city,  the  state,  the 
country;  he  could  know  luxury  and  perfect  idleness.  If 
he  stayed,  he  must  take  part  in  a  perilous  scheme  and 
wait  indefinitely  for  a  ransom  to  be  paid  over,  perhaps, 
to  Achilles.  He  would  probably  bolt  with  it  all.  Who 
wouldn't?     There  was  nobody  he  could  trust. 

Why  should  he  count  upon  the  gang?  They  were 
only  a  bunch  of  crooks!  Honor  among  thieves  was  a 
thing  he  had  heard  of  but  never  met  with.  Why  should 
he  wait  and  brave  all  the  dangers  of  poHce  pursuit  for  a 
doubtful  reward  when  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  reach 
forward  and  clutch  the  certain  money  before  him?  Five 
thousand  got  was  better  than  a  htmdred  thousand  to  get. 
He  could  make  an  escape  to  New  Jersey  and  to  Canada 
and  across  to  Europe  and  give  the  rest  of  the  "fleet"  and 
all  of  the  bulls  the  laugh. 

He  rose  and  moved  forward.  Muriel  felt  that  he  was 
about  to  attack  her  again.  She  cowered,  but  she  had  no 
escape  and  no  defense.  And  yet  she  had  one  defense: 
her  integrity,  the  aureole  of  innocence,  "a  hidden 
strength,"  said  IVIilton: 

'Tis  chastity,  my  brother,  chastity: 
She  that  has  that  is  clad  in  complete  steel; 
And,  like  a  quiver'd  nymph  with  arrows  keen, 
May  trace  huge  forests  and  unharbour'd  heaths, 
273 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Infamous  hills  and  sandy  perilous  wilds. 
Yea,  there  where  very  Desolation  dwells 
By  grots  and  caverns  shagg'd  with  horrid  shades 
She  may  pass  on  with  unblench'd  majesty. 

When  Shang  Ganley  tried  but  to  lay  his  hand  upon 
Muriel  it  was  such  an  impious  profanation  that  an 
invisible  fist  seemed  to  thrust  him  back,  though  the 
invisible  palms  of  greed  thrust  him  forward. 

He  was  ashamed  of  his  scruples,  but  he  could  not 
throttle  them.     He  compromised.     He  said: 

"You  got  a  wad  o'  money  on  you,  lady.  It  belongs  to 
me.  If  I  untie  your  hands  will  you  get  it  for  me  and 
promise  on  your  oat'  dat  you  won't  put  up  a  fight — or 
would  you  radder  I  soiched  for  it  meself  ?" 

He  glared  at  her,  but  she  could  not  speak.  He  dic- 
tated an  oath,  and  she  nodded  assent. 

"I'll  leave  you  loose  one  minute,"  he  said.  "If  you 
try  to  double-cross  me  I'll  put  you  out  wit'  a  tap  o'  dis 
gun. 

He  gave  her  a  glance  at  a  flat  automatic  revolver. 
Then  he  untied  her  hands  and  stood  on  guard  as  if  she 
were  a  crouched  leopardess.  First  she  stretched  her 
cramped  fingers  and  her  aching  arms.  She  would  have 
eased  the  maddeningly  tormenting  gag,  but  he  warned 
her  with  a  growl.  She  slipped  her  fingers  into  the  bosom 
of  her  gown,  took  out  the  Httle  roll  of  bills,  and  offered 
it  to  him.  He  seized  it,  stuffed  it  in  his  pocket,  and 
hastily  tied  her  hands  again. 

Then  he  moved  to  the  cellar  stairs.  He  paused  to  count 
the  money.  He  found  only  three  thousand  dollars.  He 
roared  in  wrath.  Even  she  was  crooked!  Everybody 
was  trying  to  cheat  him.  He  turned  again  and  advanced 
against  her,  slapping  the  bills  with  the  back  of  his  fingers, 
•and  growUng : . 

"You  can't  short-change  me.  Come  across,  come 
across  wit'  de  rest  of  it  or  I'll  get  it  meself." 

274 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Just  then  Pep  Chu  stole  back.  He  found  Shang  with 
the  money  in  his  hand.  Instinct  told  him  what  Shang's 
scheme  was.  He  snatched  at  the  biUs.  There  was  a 
struggle.  Muriel  prayed  that  they  would  disable  each 
other.  Pep  won  the  fight  easily  and  pocketed  the  spoils. 
He  took  them  out  again  and  counted  them.  He  also 
shouted  that  robbery  was  being  done.  He  searched 
Shang's  pockets  and  was  forced  to  believe  Shang's 
explanation.  Pep  was  vicious  enough  to  be  more  than 
willing  to  search  Muriel,  but  Shang  happened  to  think: 

"  Maybe  she  staked  old  Angelillo  to  some  of  our  money  ?" 

Muriel  nodded  frantically. 

"How  much?" 

She  could  not  answer.     He  held  up  two  fingers. 

"Two  t'ousand?" 

She  nodded  zealously.  Her  explanation  was  accepted 
dolefully. 

"He  beat  us  to  it." 

There  was  a  debate  between  Shang  and  Pep  as  to  the 
disposal  of  the  balance  in  hand.  Pep  was  willing  to 
divide  even.  But  they  could  not  profitably  tear  the  third 
thousand-dollar  bill  in  two.  In  this  quandary  they  re- 
membered Achilles,  and  they  feared  his  wrath.  He  knew 
that  Muriel  had  had  five  thousand  dollars  with  her.  He 
would  suspect  any  explanation.  He  would  not  accept 
their  word.     It  was  pitiful  how  distrustful  people  were. 

They  were  afraid  of  the  very  money.  They  resolved 
not  to  be  found  with  it  in  their  possession.  Shang  slipped 
it  into  Miiriel's  handbag  and  put  it  at  her  feet.  They 
wanted  her  to  guard  it  for  them! 

As  the  dinner-hour  drew  near  and  went  past,  hunger 
assailed  them.  Pep  went  first  and  fed,  then  spelled 
Shang,  who  brought  back  a  sandwich  and  a  bottle  of 
ginger-ale  for  Muriel. 

They  extracted  oaths  from  Muriel  and  released  her 
hands  and  her  mouth  from  the  galling  restraint.  She 
had  been  drained  of  her  strength  by  exhaustion  and  fear, 

275 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

and  she  ate  greedily,  salting  her  bread  with  tears.  She 
was  tied  up  again,  and  Shang,  having  produced  two 
candles,  lighted  them  and  stuck  them  on  the  box.  Then 
they  sat  down  to  wait  till  midnight. 

To  make  conversation,  Shang  explained  to  his  perfect 
audience  what  they  were  there  for.  He  apologized  for 
the  discomforts  of  the  cellar,  but  promised  her  greater 
comfort  where  they  were  going.  She  could  retimi  to  her 
own  home,  indeed,  in  a  day  or  two  if  her  father  proved 
reasonable. 

There  was  a  kind  of  reHef  to  Muriel  in  knowing  at  last 
why  this  outrage  had  been  inflicted  on  her.  The  worst 
was  not  so  bad  as  she  had  vaguely  feared. 

IVIuriel  had  had  time  to  think  of  many  things.  She  had 
regained  a  little  calm.  The  bitter  irony  of  it  all  was  her 
chief  thought.  She  felt  that  she  had  made  herself  ridicu- 
lous rather  than  tragic.  She  was  going  to  perform  miracles 
for  the  poor,  and  tliis  was  their  gratitude  to  her.  She 
was  going  to  set  the  world  right— and  here  she  was  in  this 
loathsome  cave,  unable  even  to  brush  her  own  hair  from 
her  eyes.  In  all  her  woes  that  was  perhaps  the  most 
maddening,  that  she  could  not  keep  her  hair  from  tickling 
her  forehead  and  her  eyes. 

And  where  was  her  Dr.  Worthing?  If  she  had  stayed 
with  him  she  would  have  had  protection.  What  was  he 
thinking  of  her  now?  Once  more — once  more! — she  had 
broken  an  engagement  with  him.  He  would  not  even 
trouble  to  look  for  her  this  time. 

And  now  she  felt  a  little  sorry  for  herself.  To  be  mis- 
judged by  him  was  too  cruel.  She  gave  herself  a  morsel 
of  the  s)mipathy  she  had  for  everybody  else;  she  spared 
herself  a  little  of  her  own  pity.  By  and  by  her  fatigue 
and  her  helplessness  were  so  great  that  she  slipped  by 
degrees  into  the  gulf  of  sleep. 

The  two  young  men  sat  and  studied  her  according  to 
their  lights. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

WHEN  Dr.  Worthing  left  Muriel  he  was  sick  with 
jealousy  of  Perry  Merithew.  He  followed  Ange- 
lillo  to  the  shop  of  the  egg  merchant. 

Angelillo  showed  him  the  twenty-five  hundred  dollars, 
and  he  said  he  would  see  if  he  could  find  somebody  who 
might  find  somebody  who  knew  somebody. 

He  left  his  shop  and  forbade  them  to  follow  him.  He 
probably  telephoned,  for  shortly  he  returned  and  told 
Angelillo  a  long  story,  which  Angelillo  explained  to 
Worthing: 

"He  tella  me  to  go  standa  where  Catterina  meet  Henry. 
Bineby  come  somebody  who  say,  'Goot  evaning;  time  is 
mawney.'  I  geeve  him  package  wit'  alia  de  mawney, 
and  somebody  goes,  and  bineby,  somewhere,  my  leetla 
Fnippo  he  is  turn  loose  and  comes  queeck  home." 

Then  he  ran  to  the  comer  of  Catherine  and  Henry 
streets.  He  motioned  to  Worthing  to  keep  his  dis- 
tance. He  took  his  stand  at  the  comer  and  waited, 
waited,  waited. 

People  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  passed.  A  policeman 
loitered  about.     At  last  he  strolled  away. 

A  little  girl  drifted  along  the  street.  Angelillo  wasted 
only  a  glance  on  her.  She  wandered  close  to  him  and 
piped: 

"Buona  sera,  signore;  il  tempo  b  denaro." 

Angelillo  started,  gasped,  slipped  the  money  into  her 
hand,  kissed  her  hair,  and  cried : 

"Presto  possibile.     Presto!   presto!" 

The  little  girl  ran  away,  clutching  the  package.     As  she 

277 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

shot  across  Catherine  Street  a  brewery-truck  ahno^ 
caught  her.  Angelillo  staggered  against  the  wall.  He 
watched  her  vanish,  stood  staring  after  her,  his  huge 
bulk  aquiver  with  terror. 

Worthing  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  home. 
He  was  eager  to  tell  Muriel.  She  was  not  there.  He  had 
to  wait  awhile.  Angelillo  poured  forth  the  story  of  what 
had  happened,  to  the  shrieking  Gemma  and  her  mother  and 
to  Nunzio.  Nunzio  was  as  happy  as  the  rest;  he  wept, 
and  caressed  his  wife,  and  embraced  Worthing,  as  they  all 
did.  Nunzio  had  no  dream  of  the  consequences  of  his 
gossip. 

Worthing  was  sorry  for  Muriel's  absence  from  this  car- 
nival that  she  had  financed. 

It  was  a  long  while  before  he  could  command  enough 
attention  to  ask  what  had  become  of  her.  Then  he 
was  told  that  she  had  gone  to  telephone,  promising  to 
return  at  once. 

Worthing  hurried  out  and  ransacked  the  neighborhood 
before  he  found  a  druggist  who  said  that  such  a  lady  had 
made  use  of  his  telephone  and  gone.  She  turned  back 
toward  Batavia  Street.  The  druggist  knew  that,  because 
he  had  gone  to  the  door  and  watched  her.  She  was  worth 
watching,  he  said. 

Worthing  telephoned  to  Muriel's  home.  The  servants 
had  not  even  heard  of  her  return  to  New  York. 

Worthing  went  back  to  the  Angelilli.  She  had  not  re- 
turned. 

He  smoked.  Finally  he  made  a  journey  to  the  Sokal- 
ski  home.  He  went  up  Allen  Street  in  a  taxicab.  He 
went  past  the  very  door  that  Muriel  had  entered.  He 
glanced  in  casually.  It  was  an  excellent  chance  for  tele- 
pathy, as  both  were  thinking  of  both.  But  no  telepam 
reached  either  from  other. 

The  Sokalskis  had  not  seen  or  heard  of  Muriel.  They 
were  mysteriously  uncommunicative  about  Maryla. 
Worthing  talked  with  the  self-wounded  Balinsky.     He 

278 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

was  improving  rapidly,  but  he  was  growing  uneasy  con- 
cerning the  fate  of  his  wife  and  child. 

Worthing  made  him  many  promises  and  left.  He  tried 
to  throw  ©ff  his  oppression.  He  tried  to  substitute  jeal- 
ousy for  it.  He  suspected  that  she  had  telephoned  Meri- 
thew,  and  had  gone  to  dinner  with  him.  They  were  danc- 
ing between  courses,  no  doubt.  They  wotild  dance  all 
evening.  She  would  tell  Merithew  how  wonderful  he 
was  with  his  munificent  charity. 

The  suspicion  was  bitter,  but  it  did  not  satisfy  him. 
A  tenderness  for  the  girl  kept  sweetening  his  thoughts. 
He  ate  his  own  dinner  at  an  Hungarian  restaurant  where 
imitation  Bohemians  drove  him  frantic  with  their  mock 
revels. 

He  went  back  to  the  Angelillo  home.  It  was  noisy 
with  festival  spirit  and  gabbling  neighbors.  The  reluctant 
little  prodigal  had  come  home.  He  was  hysterical  with 
his  safety  and  his  importance.  He  kept  telling  his  story. 
His  keeper  had  taken  him  out  for  a  walk,  and  had  said, 
"Wait  here  a  few  minutes  till  I  come  back."  Filippo  had 
not  waited;  he  had  started  to  run.  He  had  run  till  he 
ran  into  a  policeman's  leg.  He  held  on  to  it  as  if  it  were 
a  lamp-post.  He  tried  to  climb  it.  He  demanded  his 
"babbo!  mamma!  Angelillo!"  The  name  Angelillo  was 
introduction  enough.  He  came  home  in  triumph  on  the 
policeman's  shoulder.  Papa  Angelillo  kissed  the  police- 
man and  nearly  got  himself  arrested. 

Worthing  rejoiced  with  that  rebuilded  home,  that  re- 
constructed family.  He  saw  that  the  child  was  feverish, 
and  forbade  him  any  more  excitement.  Filippo  was  put 
to  bed  in  his  own  bed,  with  his  mother  tucking  him  in  and 
bedewing  his  face  with  the  holy  water  of  her  tears. 

There  was  but  one  regret — Muriel's  absence.  She 
should  have  been  there !  Worthing  questioned  the  family 
again.  He  had  never  told  them  Muriel's  name,  but  had 
they  spoken  of  her  to  any  one  ?  They  told  whom  they  had 
told. 

279 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

He  asked  Nunzio  if  he  had  told  anybody.  Nunzio  said 
that  he  had  told  nobody.  He  paused,  started,  shook  his 
head,  repeated,  "Nobody," 

Worthing  caught  that  little  pause.  He  called  Nunzio 
to  the  outer  hall,  seized  him  roughly,  and  demanded  what 
he  was  concealing.  Nunzio  denied  that  he  had  anything 
to  conceal.  He  had  merely  remembered  his  conversation 
with  his  friends,  Signore  and  Signora  Ganley,  at  the  stusso- 
house. 

This  was  the  only  thing  left  to  Worthing  to  try.  He 
made  Nunzio  lead  him  to  the  place.  It  was  a  long  walk, 
and  he  cross-examined  the  young  fellow  ruthlessly.  The 
Ganleys  did  not  live  in  the  building  where  Muriel  was  a 
prisoner.  When  Worthing  and  Nunzio  reached  the  Gan- 
ley flat  there  was  no  one  at  home.  The  neighbors  said 
that  nobody  had  been  at  home  all  evening.  Late  in  the 
afternoon  Mrs.  Ganley  had  come  in  and  dressed  and  gone 
to  her  work  up-town  somewhere.  Mr.  Ganley  had  not 
been  seen.  Stuss-players  had  called  and  been  turned 
away  by  the  locked  door. 

Worthing  gave  up  and  let  the  drowsy  Nunzio  go  back 
to  his  home.  He  began  to  pace  the  East  Side  aimlessly, 
goaded  by  anxieties,  lured  from  place  to  place  by  whims 
of  fantastic  theory. 

When  he  grew  too  dog-tired  to  walk,  he  would  drop  in 
at  a  saloon  or  a  moving-picture  show.  But  he  could  not 
rest.  One  moment  he  thought  that  he  ought  to  take  the 
police  into  his  confidence ;  the  next  he  derided  himself  for 
a  fool.  He  had  no  right  to  give  her  name  to  the  police. 
She  was  dining  with  friends  on  one  of  the  roof  gardens, 
perhaps,  or  had  gone  to  one  of  the  theaters. 

Yet  what  if  harm  should  befall  her?  He  laughed  again. 
What  harm  could  befall  a  wide-awake  girl  in  the  Twentieth 
Century  in  New  York  City?  And  yet — harm  did  befall 
people.  Numbers  of  people  disappeared  every  month. 
Numbers  of  daring  crimes  remained  mysteries  for  ever. 

He  resolved  to  have  one  last  try  at  that  stuss-house. 

280 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Perhaps  it  would  open  late  at  night.  Ganley  might  at 
least  help  wdth  a  hint.  Worthing  plodded  achingly  back 
to  Allen  Street.  It  was  almost  abandoned.  A  rough 
and  dusty  wind  had  driven  the  populace  indoors  to  bed. 

He  went  to  Shang  Ganley 's  flat.  The  hall  was  dark 
save  for  a  little  gas-jet  that  seemed  to  be  put  there  to 
show  how  dark  it  was.  Worthing  knocked  and  knocked, 
and  had  no  answer. 

He  went  back  to  the  street.  He  was  worn  out,  and 
fatigue  was  giving  bromides  to  anxiety.  He  would  have 
to  go  home  to  bed.  He  saw  a  taxicab  standing  a  few  doors 
below.  It  was  an  odd  sight  at  this  hour  in  this  street — 
as  welcome  as  it  was  odd.  He  resolved  to  make  his  feet 
a  gift  of  a  ride  home. 

There  were  two  men  on  the  box  of  the  taxicab.  That 
was  suspicious.  They  were  talking  in  low  tones  against 
the  hum  of  the  engine.  He  would  make  one  of  them  get 
down.  It  was  not  wise  to  ride  in  a  taxicab  with  two  men 
on  the  box.  He  walked  to  the  cab  and  opened  the  door. 
Before  he  could  name  his  destination  the  driver  said: 

"Nuttin'  doin',  boss.     I'm  engaged." 

Worthing  moved  on  with  a  sigh.  Then  it  struck  him 
as  odd  that  a  taxicab  should  be  waiting  in  front  of  this 
peculiarly  squalid  tenement.  A  thousand  simple  reasons 
might  explain  it.  Yet  it  struck  him  as  odd.  A  thousand 
odd  reasons  might  explain  it,  too.  He  paused — a  hundred 
yards  away — and  looked  back.  He  leaned  on  a  pillar  of 
the  Elevated  Road  and  looked  back.  He  was  too  tired 
to  move  on. 

He  stood  there  a  long  while  till  a  taxicab  that  had 
taken  some  late  newspaper  man  to  his  office  came  hustling 
along.  Worthing  stepped  out  and  stopped  it  with  a 
signal.  He  was  about  to  get  in.  But  he  was  still  fretting 
over  the  mystery  of  that  other  taxicab.  He  closed  the 
door  softly  and  said,  "Wait." 

He  advanced  on  the  other  taxicab,  keeping  in  the  lee  of 
the  Elevated  pillars. 

281 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

A  man  issued  from  the  door  of  the  tenement  and  hissed. 
The  extra  man  on  the  box  got  off  and  looked  up  and  down 
the  street  anxiously,  then  opened  the  door.  Worthing 
felt  that  now  the  riddle  was  to  be  answered.  He  moved 
close  quickly. 

Two  men  came  out,  supporting  a  woman  between  them. 
She  seemed  to  be  resisting.  They  pressed  her  forward. 
•She  struggled.     Worthing  hurried  up. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  giri?" 

The  answer  was  in  Pep  Chu's  ugliest  tones.  "Ah, 
she's  been  drinkin'  a  little  too  much." 

Worthing  had  seen  an  enormous  number  of  such  cases. 
This  was  imconvincing.  "I'm  a  doctor.  Maybe  I  can 
help  you." 

"You  wait  till  you're  sent  for." 

The  girl  struggled  and  made  a  choking  sound.  She 
shook  off  the  veil,  and  Worthing  caught  a  glimpse  of  eyes. 
The  lower  part  of  the  face  was  hidden  with  a  white  cloth. 
But  those  eyes  seemed  to  cry  to  him.  He  was  sure  that 
there  were  no  other  eyes  on  earth  like  those. 

Worthing  seized  Shang  Ganley  by  the  arm. 

Pep  made  an  unexpected  limge  at  him,  and  struck  him 
in  the  face.  He  reeled  against  a  pillar  and  clutched  it  to 
keep  from  falling.  Before  the  street  ceased  to  wheel 
under  him,  the  girl  was  thrust  into  the  cab  and  two  men 
squeezed  in  with  her.     The  taxicab  was  moving  off. 

Worthing  leaped  on  the  running-board  and  caught  hold 
of  the  door,  the  window  being  down.  He  was  struck  at, 
and  he  fought  back  with  his  right  hand,  clinging  with  his 
left  hand.  Suddenly  the  knuckles  were  smashed  with  the 
butt  end  of  a  revolver.  He  let  go,  but  caught  the  long 
hinge  at  the  side  of  the  cab. 

Pep  leaned  far  out  and  struck  at  him  again  with  the 
revolver.  He  mTssed  and  the  weapon  fell  from  his  hand. 
The  extra  man  on  the  box  looked  back  and,  seeing  Worth- 
ing, ttuned  to  the  driver  and  yelled: 

"Scrape  him  off!" 

282 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

The  taxi  swerved  and  ran  close  to  the  curb,  where  the 
Elevated  pillars  were  aligned.  The  first  one  they  passed 
struck  Worthing  a  staggering  blow.  The  second  one 
swept  him  from  the  side  of  the  car  and  flung  him  to  the 
street.  He  called  wildly  to  the  other  taxi  to  come  up. 
While  he  waited  he  ran  back  for  the  revolver  Pep  had 
dropped.     It  was  in  good  shape  and  loaded. 

His  taxicab  came  up,  and  he  leapt  aboard  by  the  driver, 
pointed  to  the  disappearing  taxi,  and  cried: 

"Get  'em!" 

He  explained  why,  as  the  driver  tried  to  whip  his  old 
engine  to  its  best  endeavor. 

Worthing  fired  his  revolver,  and  his  cry  of  "Police!" 
leverberated  along  the  canon  of  Allen  Street  with  terrify- 
ing effect.  It  was  to  be  another  of  those  motor  pursuits 
that  have  added  a  new  shiver  to  the  midnights  of  New 
York. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

A  STREET  could  hardly  be  a  street  and  be  darker  than 
Allen  Street.  That  thoroughfare  never  has  even  the 
nightly  advantage  of  the  moon  and  stars.  It  is  hardly 
more  than  a  long  shed,  since  the  Elevated  Road  roofs  it 
over  and  runs  nearly  flush  with  the  opposite  windows. 
The  stree15-lamps  are  lost  or  masked  among  its  pillars. 
The  shops  are  sparsely  illuminated  at  best,  and  window- 
cleaning  is  the  industry  least  practised. 

It  was  an  ugly  night,  besides — a  raw  March  night  fallen 
into  the  late  summer  by  mistake.  The  wind  was  mean, 
and  flung  dirt  in  the  eyes,  drove  loiterers  withindoors, 
and  spent  its  peevishness  in  kicking  up  the  endless  litter 
left  by  the  push-carts  that  had  filled  the  street  all  day. 

Even  the  fruit-stands  and  saloons  that  flare  at  this 
hour  on  so  many  other  comers  were  missing  here.  Almost 
the  only  place  alive  was  a  little  hole  in  the  wall  where  a 
Roumanian  sold  soft  drinks  to  Roumanians. 

By  the  time  its  drowsy  gossips  had  rushed  into  the 
street  at  the  sound  of  Dr.  Worthing's  pistol-shot  and  his 
shout,  even  his  taxicab  had  rushed  past.  The  clamor  did 
not  reach  the  ear  of  the  gangsters  who  were  carrying  off 
Muriel  Schuyler  in  Little  Big  Blip's  taxicab,  since  an 
Elevated  train  roared  along  the  trestle  over  their  heads 
at  that  moment,  leaving  them  ignorant  that  they  were 
pursued. 

The  driver  of  the  taxicab  that  Worthing  had  comman- 
deered— ^John  Sbarra  was  his  name — was  astounded  at  the 
passenger  who  stopped  him  in  the  street,  told  him  with 
mystery  to  wait,  and  then  fired  a  shot,  yelled,  ran  and 
leaped  on  the  box  with  him,  crying: 

284 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Get  'em!  Get  that  taxi — ahead  there!  There's  a 
girl  in  it — ^kidnapped!    For  God's  sake,  full  speed!" 

This  was  more  inspiring,  and  the  engine  answered  the 
lever  with  rasping  growls  and  plunges.  But  it  took  up 
its  gait  so  slowly  that  Sbarra  apologized: 

"This  ain't  no  racing-machine,  you  know,  boss;  but 
I'll  do  me  damnedest."  He  jockeyed  the  car  as  if  it 
were  a  horse,  with  fervent  speech:     "Come  on,  come  on, 

you !    Are  you  a  taxicab  or  are  you  a  coffee-grinder? 

If  you  ever  went,  go  now!" 

The  two  men  bent  forward  and  worked  their  feet  as 
if  they  were  driving  treadles.  They  breathed  fast  with 
eagerness,  like  runners.  The  hackney  engine  groaned 
and  spat  and  protested.  By  the  time  it  had  gathered 
headway  at  last  the  other  cab  was  three  hundred  ji'ards 
away. 

At  East  Houston  Street  Allen  Street  becomes  First 
Avenue  and  doubles  its  width,  but  the  Elevated  tracks 
still  cloud  the  roadway.  Worthing  did  not  know  that 
there  was  a  police  station  at  Fourth  Street  till  he  passed 
the  green  lamp-posts.  Then  it  was  too  late  to  call  for 
help  from  there.     Besides  he  felt  that  he  was  gaining. 

But  at  Fifth  Street  a  sleepy  peddler  loafing  along  with 
his  unsold  wares  shoved  his  push-cart  directly  across 
the  path.  At  the  sound  of  Sbarra's  horn  he  underwent 
paralysis  and  lockjaw  and  stood  fast.  Sbarra  switched  his 
car  so  sharply  to  the  right  that  he  skidded  against  an  Ele- 
vated pillar.     But  he  got  by  with  only  a  mud-guard  bent. 

Then  Worthing  saw  that  the  other  cab  had  turned  also 
to  the  right  and  was  scooting  down  St.  Mark's  Place. 
He  made  Sbarra  continue  parallel. 

At  Avenue  A,  as  he  suspected,  the  other  cab  turned 
north  again,  and  he  followed  suit. 

Worthing  did  not  fire  his  revolver  nor  shout.  He 
might  need  his  cartridges  for  closer  work,  and  his  shouts 
would  only  quicken  the  speed  of  his  quarry,  without  bring- 
ing help  where  help  was  none.     He  settled  down  to  a  si- 

28s 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

lent  stem-chase,  his  eyes  and  his  teeth  set,  every  nerve 
excruciatingly  tense.  He  was  almost  intolerably  im- 
patient— the  more  impatient  because  the  progress  was 
smooth  and  silent  and  uneventful. 

There  was  no  Elevated  Road  to  deny  them  light  now. 
The  avenue  was  wide  and  the  buildings  low.  And  they 
had  got  back  the  sky — a  vast,  unusual  sky,  filled  with 
herds  of  wind-sped  clouds  that  gave  the  small  high  moon 
the  aspect  of  an  anxious  fugitive. 

On  either  side  of  this  street  was  a  line  of  electric  globes 
with  the  crimson  chimneys  of  fire-alarm  street-lamps  at  in- 
tervals. But  it  was  lighted  up  for  nobody  except  a  few 
slimibering  merchants  of  fruit,  who  stared  at  the  two  cabs 
hurrying  past  their  comers  and  returned  to  their  dreams. 

It  was  a  dirnib  and  lonesome  street,  and  the  doubly 
belated  horse-car  rolling  down  the  squealing  tracks  with 
a  jingle  of  bells  and  clop-clop  of  hoofs  seemed  but  a  ghostly 
equipage  from  the  past. 

Sbarra's  cab  kept  shortening  the  flying  interval  to  the 
outlaw  cab,  and  Worthing  kept  straining  his  eyes  in  the 
hope  of  making  out  the  numbers  jiggling  on  the  plate 
under  the  little  red  tail-lamp.  But  he  could  not  quite  be 
svire  of  them  or  their  order.  He  was  always  just  about  to 
read  them  aright,  and  his  heart  was  beginning  to  exult  a 
little,  when  he  saw  an  electric  cross-town  car  rush  across 
Fourteenth  Street  directly  in  the  path  of  the  cab  rushing 
forward  with  Muriel.  Worthing's  heart  sickened  and  he 
shut  his  eyes  against  the  inevitable  collision. 

Muriel  had  shut  her  eyes,  too.  Her  field  of  vision  was 
only  the  slivers  of  view  that  came  through  the  edges  of 
the  blown  curtains  which  were  drawn,  though  the  glass 
in  front  was  down.  But  she  saw  the  gleaming  headlight 
and  the  gleaming  length  of  the  street-car  sweep  suddenly 
across  the  dark. 

She  heard  the  groan  of  Shang  Ganley:  "Gawd,  we're 
gone!"  and  the  sharp  voice  of  the  man  on  the  box  howling 

286 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

to  the  chauffeur:  "Stop!  Toin  to  de  left!  Watch 
out!" 

The  chauffeur  and  the  motorman  made  no  sounds. 
They  gave  their  souls  to  their  brakes.  The  cab  struck, 
rocked,  stopped. 

The  drivers,  relieved  of  the  fear  of  death  and  murder, 
spent  their  exhaust  in  mutual  oaths  and  hard  names  and 
the  inane  demands:  "Agh,  watcha  think  you're  doin'?" 
"Agh,  whyn't  you  look  where  you're  goin'?" 

The  curtains  in  the  front  of  the  taxicab  kept  the  motor- 
man  and  the  passengers  from  catching  a  glimpse  of  Muriel. 
She  made  a  frantic  effort  to  break  loose,  but  Shang  and 
Pep  twisted  her  arms  up  without  mercy,  and  the  gag 
choked  back  her  screams. 

She  wept  mutely  at  the  vanity  of  so  much  help  so  near; 
and  when  the  motorman  backed  his  big  car  to  let  the 
taxicab  pass,  there  was  not  even  a  policeman  to  inves- 
tigate the  accident. 

Then  she  heard  a  shot  fired  somewhere  back.  She 
heard  a  voice  that  she  knew,  crying:  "Stop  that  cab! 
Stop  that  cab!" 

Her  heart  rejoiced  and  felt  already  free.  But  nobody 
stopped  the  cab.  She  saw  Pep  lean  out  of  the  window  and 
gaze  back. 

' '  Who  is  it  ?    A  cop .?' '  said  Shang. 

"No,  it's  de  guy  we  scraped  off  in  Allen  Street.  He's 
got  anudder  taxi." 

She  heard  Achilles  on  the  front  seat:  "Beat  it,  Blip! 
Dey're  after  us!" 

She  was  flung  roughly  about  as  the  cab  shot  forward. 
The  voice  of  Worthing  died  out  in  a  hubbub  of  voices. 
And  she  wept  again,  less  at  the  defeat  of  hope,  than  at  the 
thought  that  he  was  trying  to  save  her. 

With  the  imbecility  of  startled  humanity,  when  the 
motorman,  the  conductor,  and  the  passengers  on  the 
street-car  heard  Worthing's  call  to  "Stop  that  cab!"  they 

287 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

turned  their  eyes  from  that  cab  to  his,  and  swarmed  in 
his  path  with  lubbering  wonder  to  ask  questions. 

He  knew  the  oxlike  habit  of  the  street  crowd,  and  he 
wasted  no  time  on  explanations.  He  leaned  out  and 
brandished  his  pistol,  shouting: 

"Get  out  of  the  way,  you  damned  fools!" 

They  blundered  aside  and  gaped  at  him  as  if  he  were 
the  criminal.  He  sank  back  in  his  seat,  muttering  dis- 
gusted oaths  at  the  delay. 

But  one  crumb  of  luck  had  fallen  to  him.  He  had  won 
close  enough  to  read  the  number  of  the  taxicab — 646416 
N.  Y.  1913.  He  took  out  his  prescription  pad  and  jotted 
the  numerals  down  lest  they  be  jolted  from  his  memory. 

The  fugitive  was  flying  faster  now  and  drawing  away. 
The  street  was  lonely  again,  a  sordid  abandoned  road  of 
closed  shops,  locked  factories,  sleeping  tenements.  There 
was  little  need  of  police  here.  Not  even  a  cat  lurked 
among  the  penurious  garbage-cans. 

They  resumed  their  business  of  rolling  up  space  as  on 
a  spool,  and  there  was  a  lilt  of  hope  in  the  steady  purr  of 
Sbarra's  engine. 

And  then  a  little  family  straggling  home  appeared, 
cautiously  watched  Achilles'  cab  go  by,  and  started  across 
at  its  ease;  the  young  father  pushing  a  baby-carriage  with 
one  hand,  clutching  up  an  infant  with  the  other;  his  be- 
draggled wife  carrying  bundles  and  directing  two  pedes- 
trian children. 

At  the  sound  of  Sbarra's  horn  and  "Worthing's  voice 
the  family  dispersed  in  all  directions,  the  children  darting 
here  and  there,  and  the  mother  here  and  there  after  this 
one  and  that. 

Worthing's  heart  sickened  again  as  he  felt  in  imagina- 
tion the  thud  of  impact  and  the  horror  of  passing  across 
a  child's  body.  But  Sbarra  by  a  miracle  of  good  fortune 
and  good  dodging  prevented  any  of  the  family  from  devot- 
ing their  frames  to  his  wheels.  He  could  not  refrain  from 
shouting  back  the  utterly  unimportant  but  imf ailing  rebuke: 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Whyn't  you  look  where  you're  goin'?" 

The  father  and  mother  and  the  children  shouted  some- 
thing back  that  was  lost  on  the  wind.  Worthing  rejoiced 
at  the  escape,  but  the  loss  of  impetus  dejected  him.  His 
eyes  fairly  pleaded  with  the  solitude  for  help,  and  he 
groaned : 

"Are  all  the  policemen  dead?  Where  in  God's  world 
are  all  the  police?" 

Sbarra,  who  was  not  original,  laughed  bitterly:  "You 
never  find  'em,  when  you  want  'em." 

Then  as  if  in  mystic  answer  to  the  prayer  a  shadowy 
figure  under  a  visored  cap  was  suddenly  visible  in  the 
middle  of  the  street  ahead,  a  very  allegory  of  the  police  idly 
tossing  his  night-stick  out  of  his  hand  and  jerking  it  back 
by  the  cord.  He  stared  at  Shang  Ganley's  swift  taxicab 
and  called  to  it  a  lazy,  "Hay!"  But  his  answer  was  a  curt, 
"Watch  out!"  He  jumped  from  its  path,  but  he  took  re- 
venge on  Worthing,  confronted  him  with  uplifted  palm 
and  would  not  budge  for  his  life. 

Sbarra  had  to  brake  down  and  turn  aside.  The  patrol- 
man laid  hold  of  the  car  and  demanded : 

"Hay,  where  you  goin'  so  fast,  young  feller?" 

Worthing,  whose  hospital  experience  had  taught  him 
things,  called  to  him:  "Hop  on  here  a  minute,  officer.  I 
need  you." 

The  officer  was  truculent  and  suspicious,  but  he  swung 
aboard  and  stood  up  as  the  car  went  on.  Worthing  talked 
rapidly,  as  he  forced  the  memorandum  into  the  officer's 
hand. 

"I'm  Dr.  Worthing,  ambulance  surgeon  at  Bellevue. 
One  of  my  patients  is  being  carried  off  by  a  gang  of  gun- 
men. She's  in  that  taxi.  It's  Muriel  Schuyler — the 
daughter  of  Jacob  Schuyler.  This  is  the  nimiber  of  the 
taxi."  He  gave  him  the  prescription.  "  You  take  it  and 
run  to  the  signal-box  and  make  headquarters  send  out  a 
general  alarm  before  that  taxi  can  get  to  one  of  the 
bridges.     Hurry;  it's  a  matter  of  life  and  death!" 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

The  officer  pondered  with  maddening  deliberation  as 
he  stared  up  the  avenue.  " Is  that  so?  Well,  I  guess  I'll 
just  go  along  with  yous." 

"Not  on  your  life!"  Worthing  stormed.  "Do  as  I  tell 
you.  They're  making  for  Queensborough  Bridge.  They'll 
get  away." 

"I  guess  I'll  have  a  shot  at  their  tires." 

He  drew  his  revolver  with  majesty.  But  Worthing 
knocked  it  up. 

"Do  you  want  to  kill  the  girl?  Do  as  I  tell  you,  or  I'll 
get  you  broke." 

He  was  mad  enough  to  thrust  even  the  policeman  from 
the  running-board.  The  officer  was  furious  at  the  in- 
dignity, but  the  taxicab  had  jimiped  ahead.  He  was 
for  taking  a  shot  at  its  tires,  but  in  a  muddle  of  indecision 
he  obeyed  Worthing's  suggestion  and  dashed  for  the  sig- 
nal-box, whanging  his  resounding  locust  on  the  pavement 
as  he  ran. 

That  familiar  alarm  caught  the  ear  of  Achilles -on  the 
box  of  the  fleeing  taxicab.  He  leaned  out  and  stared 
back,  and  Muriel  heard,  without  understanding  much: 

"Cheese!  dat  cop's  makin'  for  a  signal-box!  Dey'Il 
send  out  a  general  and  have  all  de  bulls  in  de  v^'oil'  spillin' 
out  on  de  streets.  Dis  ain't  gona  be  no  pipe  for  us  guys. 
Keep  your  engine  in  hand,  Blip,  for  quick  toins.  What 
we  can't  dodge  we  gotta  run  over." 

The  patrolman,  following  Worthing's  instructions, 
reached  the  signal-box,  unlocked  it,  threw  open  the  door, 
lifted  the  telephone  receiver  from  the  hook,  and  pantingly 
informed  the  sergeant  on  the  desk  at  the  station-house  of 
the  Twenty-first  Precinct: 

"Say — say,  sergeant,  this  is  O' — O'Dono-hoo — noom- 
ber  sivinty-t'irty-tree.  Say,  they's  a  taxicab's  gotta  be 
stopped!  Got  a  gerl  aboard!  Kidnappin'  it  is!  Miss 
Schuyler — Muriel  Schuyler — rich — you  know — Jacob 
Schuyler —    Yes,  his  gerl — a  gang's  got  her!    I  hollered 

290 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

'em  for  to  stop — they  gave  me  the  laugh — tried  for  to  roon 
me  down.  The  noomber  of  the  cair  is — take  it  down — 
646416.  Got  it?  No!"  He  repeated  it  several  times. 
"That's  it.  Sind  out  the  gineral  alairm.  It's  headin' 
narth  on  Avenyeh  Ah,  and  goin'  like  hell — makin'  for 
Queensbury  Bridge,  maybe — a  dirty  brown  taxi  it  is — 
noomber  646416.     Ahl  right!" 

Sergeant  Jaskol  on  the  desk  called  to  Sergeant  Tahl 
in  reserve  to  get  out  on  the  job,  though  it  was  doubtless 
too  late.  Meanwhile  he  was  leaning  against  the  tele- 
phone and  muttering: 

"Gimme  headquarters." 

Headquarters  took  the  news  with  the  unruffled  calm  of 
people  whose  all-day,  all-night  traffic  was  in  danger  and 
crime.  There  was  no  emotion,  but  much  efficiency,  in  the 
officer's  command  to  the  switchboard  operators: 

"General  alarm:  Stop  dirty-brown  taxicab  No.  646416. 
Muriel  Schuyler  is  on  board — ^kidnapped  by  gunmen. 
Making  north  from  Avenyeh  A.  Notify  bridges  and  upper 
precincts  first.     On  the  job  now!" 

The  operators  began  to  jab  plugs  into  various  dimples 
on  the  big  smtchboard,  and  to  murmur  the  same  words 
into  the  mouthpieces.  Then  the  plugs  were  yanked  out, 
and  lifted  to  other  spots. 

The  brain  of  the  police  was  sending  its  news  and  its 
will  to  the  ganglia.  From  there  is  would  be  flashed  out 
to  the  muscles. 

In  each  precinct  a  man  in  a  cap  took  up  the  receiver, 
murmured  "Hello,"  listened,  then  called,  "Sergeant!"  A 
sergeant  jumped  forward  and  saluted. 

There  was  a  stir  among  the  poHcemen,  prisoners  at  the 
desk,  and  reporters.  An  officer;  or  several  officers,  rushed 
out  and  down  the  steps  into  the  street  with  the  simple 
task  of  checking  a  ton  of  taxicab  going  at  thirty  miles  or 
more  an  hour,  with  a  gunman  at  the  wheel. 

Over  two  thousand  policemen  were  out  on  post  already 
in  Manhattan  Borough.     In  each  precinct  the  word  was 

291 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

given  to  notify  them  as  they  rang  in  from  their  signal- 
boxes. 

But  the  flashlight  signal  that  sets  an  eye  to  blinking 
over  the  signal-box  and  calls  the  patrolman  on  the  run  was 
not  then  installed.  Some  of  the  patrolmen  had  just  re- 
ported and  would  not  ring  up  again  for  an  hour.  These 
might  calmly  watch  the  taxicab  go  by  and  never  heed  it 
among  the  droves  of  taxicabs,  all  of  them  hurrying  on 
mysterious  errands. 

But  Manhattan  is  still  an  island,  and  at  each  of  the 
four  huge  East  River  bridges,  and  at  the  dozen  little 
bridges  across  the  Harlem  River  and  the  Ship  Canal,  and 
at  each  of  the  ferry-houses  on  the  East  River,  the  Hudson, 
and  the  Battery,  the  word  was  instantly  present  and  the 
arrival  of  taxicab  No.  646416  was  eagerly  awaited  by 
dozens  of  uniformed  Horatii. 

Worthing  knew  this  mechanism,  and  he  hoped  that  it 
would  be  invoked  to  his  aid.  But  he  had  no  assurance 
that  Shang  Ganley's  destination  was  out  of  town.  There 
were  hiding-places  enough  in  the  twenty-one  square  miles 
of  Manhattan  Borough.  There  were  dangers  enough  in 
its  hundreds  of  miles  of  streets. 

A  fugitive  automobile  had  all  the  advantage  of  a  fox 
in  a  thick  covert.  It  surprised  every  street.  No  one 
could  know  whither  it  was  bound,  which  comer  it  would 
turn  next,  or  which  after  that.  Each  street  was  a  separate 
ravine  shut  off  from  sight  or  sound  of  its  parallel.  Count- 
less taxicabs  were  scuttering  about  the  checker-board  on 
more  or  less  honorable  errands.  They  were  all  over- 
speeding  at  this  hour,  and  little  heed  was  paid  to  them. 
A  car  was  past  before  its  number  was  read.  If  it  was 
commanded  to  stop,  what  if  it  would  not  stop? 

Nearly  every  night  some  motor  ran  amuck  with  a 
drunken  roadster  or  a  criminal  at  the  wheel.  Again  and 
again  the  outlaws  eluded  all  the  cordons  and  were  lost 
in  the  complex  of  the  city.  If  they  were  overlooked  at 
one  of  the  bridges  or  dashed  past  the  officer,  they  had 

292 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Greater  New  York's  five  thousand  miles  of  streets  for 
their  wilderness,  and  beyond  that  no  limit  to  their  liberty. 

Worthing  had  guessed  that  Muriel  had  been  carried 
off  for  purposes  of  ransom.  His  mind  had  been  full  of 
the  Angelillo  kidnapping  case,  and  this  was  his  first  and 
only  theory. 

The  Queensborough  Bridge  at  Fifty-ninth  Street  was  the 
first  on  the  route  that  the  taxicab  was  following.  Across 
its  mile-and-a-half  span  lay  all  of  Long  Island. 

The  directness  of  the  taxicab  encouraged  the  belief 
that  it  was  making  for  that  bridge.  It  kept  straight  on 
till  Avenue  A  ended  bluntly  in  a  brick  wall  at  Twenty- 
fourth  Street.     Then  it  whisked  west  and  disappeared. 

When  Sbarra's  car  whisked  west  in  turn  the  red  tail- 
light  of  the  other  taxi  was  not  to  be  seen  in  the  dark  lane 
where  the  Metropolitan  tower  hoisted  its  bulky  shaft 
seven  hundred  feet  into  the  sky  and  held  aloft  its  huge 
torch  among  the  stars.  Above  the  adjoining  roofs  its 
vast  clock  dial  leered  like  a  Cyclops'  one  stupid  eye. 

But  it  saw  only  one  taxicab  in  that  street.  According- 
ly, when  Sbarra  reached  First  Avenue,  he  swerved  to  the 
right  without  question,  and  made  out  the  other  cab  scud- 
ding north  again. 

The  Elevated  tracks  had  left  First  Avenue  a  block 
below,  and  the  street  ran  on  unvexed  for  five  miles  to  the 
Harlem  River.  It  was  a  broad,  doleful  thoroughfare  with 
a  low  sky-line  of  ancient  tenements  save  where  enormous 
breweries  or  warehouses  for  dressed  beef  blotted  the  stars, 
or  gas-towers  sat  about  like  stupendous  cheese-boxes. 

From  Twenty-sixth  to  Twenty-eighth  they  were  pass- 
ing the  Morgue  and  Bellevue  Hospital,  whence  an  ambu- 
lance was  issuing  just  in  time  to  compel  another  wide 
excursion. 

Worthing  realized  that  he  should  have  been  going  out 
with  that  ambulance.  It  was  his  watch,  and  he  had  sent 
no  word  of  his  absence. 

For  all  his  excitement,  he  had  time  for  a  whimsical 
293 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

wonder  if  the  interne  on  the  tailboard  of  that  ambulance 
might  be  going  to  some  such  romance  as  he  had  run  into 
himself  when  he  went  out  to  mend  Happy  Hanigan  two 
weeks  ago  and  found  Miuiel  Schuyler. 

From  the  first  she  had  caused  him  hardly  anything 
except  ridiculous  hopes,  quick  and  frequent  humiliations, 
long  anxieties,  suspicions,  resentments,  derelictions  from 
duty,  losses  of  time  and  patience  and  progress. 

Now  he  was  risking  his  bones,  his  liberty,  his  position, 
his  very  life  because  of  her  insane  recklessness.  Beside 
his  fierce  eagerness  to  rescue  her  from  the  scoundrels  who 
held  her,  he  had  two  other  ambitions — to  tell  her  how 
weU  she  deserved  just  what  had  befallen  her,  and  to  tell 
her  that  she  had  neither  wisdom  nor  reliability  to  make 
her  worth  ever  seeing  again.  He  tried  to  tell  himself 
that  he  hated  her. 

And  yet  in  the  quaint  algebra  of  the  human  equation, 
when  all  these  plus  and  minus  disappointments,  disap- 
provals, dislikes,  disdains,  and  distrusts  were  added  up, 
the  total  was  not  disregard  at  all,  but  love  to  distraction. 

He  dared  not  think  how  beautiful  and  dear  and  more- 
than-all-telling  precious  to  him  was  the  helpless  passenger 
in  the  ugly  car  that  sped  in  front  of  him,  maddeningly 
unattainable.  He  dared  not  remember  that  it  was  her 
good  big  heart  that  had  brought  her  into  this  trap.  He 
thought  of  the  beasts  that  had  charge  of  her,  and  took 
energy  from  his  wrath  at  them. 

The  avenue  ran  now  through  a  space  of  disreputable 
lots  and  rickety  fences  covered  with  frivolous  posters. 
Then  it  dipped  under  the  tracks  of  the  Elevated  spur  to 
the  Thirty-fourth  Street  ferry. 

Here  there  was  apt  to  be  Ufe,  and  Worthing  broke 
the  quietude  with  a  pistol-shot  and  a  loud  yell  for 
"Police!" 

The  general  alarm  had  already  reached  the  ferry,  and 
the  patrolman  there  had  gone  running  up  to  the  crossing, 
and  a  roimdsman  had  joined  him.    Worthing  blessed  their 

294 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

very  uniforms  as  he  saw  them  far  ahead,  standing  under 
the  Elevated  tracks  with  their  hands  up. 

But  Achilles  was  desperate  now,  and  so  was  Little  Big 
Blip,  his  creature.  Achilles  yelled  to  the  officers.  Blip 
made  to  pass  between  them,  but  they  closed  in  front  of  him. 

Blip  did  not  set  his  brake.  He  drove  straight  on  like 
a  torpedo.  The  officers  had  to  jtmip  aside.  One  of  them 
struck  at  Achilles  with  his  club;  he  ducked  the  blow;  it 
smote  the  cab  and  sent  the  locust  whirring  to  the  pave- 
ment. 

The  other  officer  sprang  away  too  late,  and  was  knocked 
down.  As  he  sprawled  with  a  wrenched  ankle  and  a  broken 
wrist,  he  struggled  for  his  revolver  and,  whirling  in  the 
dirt,  lifted  himself  to  one  elbow  and  sent  a  bidlet  after 
the  taxicab.  It  was  a  left-handed  shot,  and  smashed  a 
shop-window  a  block  away. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  tracks  he  was  not  seen  by  Sbarra 
till  the  candle-flame  at  the  muzzle  of  his  revolver  revealed 
him.  Sbarra  twirled  his  wheel  like  mad  and  jammed 
down  his  emergency  brake  just  in  time  to  escape  killing 
him.  And  in  avoiding  him  he  missed  killing  the  other 
officer  by  a  lesser  margin. 

This  man,  with  his  club  gone,  shoved  his  revolver  in 
Worthing's  face  as  he  clutched  at  the  seat  rail  and  floun- 
dered onto  the  running-board.  He  held  an  ancient  grudge 
against  all  taxi-men,  and  he  was  trembling  with  lust  to 
revenge  his  fallen  comrade. 

Worthing  threw  up  his  hands,  crying:  "Don't  shoot! 
Climb  on  and  help  us.  That's  the  cab  we've  got  to  get ! 
Go  on,  Sbarra!" 

"Nagh  you  don't!"  Roundsman  Grebe  snarled,  and 
thrust  his  gim  into  Sbarra's  ear.  But  Worthing  convinced 
him,  as  he  had  convinced  the  other  poUceman.  and  he 
turned  his  attention  to  the  car  of  Achilles. 

Grebe  took  aim  and  fired.  It  was  a  poor  shot,  and 
came  near  ptmcturing  a  gaping  bystander  on  the  curb. 
Worthing  seized  the  man's  arm  as  he  took  closer  aim. 

295 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Leave  go  me  arm!"  snarled  Grebe.  "I'm  pluggin'  at 
their  tires." 

"But  there's  a  girl  in  there,"  Worthing  pleaded. 
"For  God's  sake,  don't  kill  her." 

Grebe  drew  down  his  gun  reluctantly  and  fastened  his 
eyes  on  the  car.  He  kept  breathing  oaths  and  questions, 
while  the  taxicab  fought  space  and  time,  and  the  lamp- 
posts drifted  by  with  odiously  deliberate  indifference. 
On  the  left  the  little  playground  of  St.  Gabriel's  Park. 
On  the  right  a  brewery  with  funnels  like  a  war-ship.  Gas- 
turrets  emitting  an  acrid  stench.  Pork-packers'  ware- 
houses. And  always  the  lamp-posts  drifting  by,  with  their 
labels  E.  38  St.,  E.  39  St.,  E.  40  St.,  E.  41  St.,  E.  42  St., 
E.  43  St. 

Grebe  was  fimiing  with  the  helpless  sullenness  of  a  fare 
who  is  going  to  miss  his  train,  but  rides  on. 

At  Forty-ninth  Street  the  avenue  rises  over  a  low  ridge 
and  Sbarra's  taxicab  groaned  and  slackened.  Grebe 
cursed  it  with  official  fluency  as  if  it  were  purposely  shirk- 
ing.    He  rounded  on  the  meek  Sbarra : 

"Why  the  hell  don't  you  get  a  velocipede?  This 
damned  turtle  can't  crawl." 

Poor  Sbarra  had  berated  the  engine  himself,  but  he 
could  not  permit  outside  abuse.  "If  you  see  a  faster  car 
along  here,  whyn't  you  grab  it?"  he  said. 

"None  of  your  lip,"  was  the  best  Grebe  coidd  an- 
swer. 

Sbarra's  retort  was  too  pat.  To  the  west  there  were  a 
thousand  motor-cars.  This  long,  long  lane  was  devoid  of 
every  vehicle,  though  during  the  day  it  was  boiling  with 
traffic. 

Its  silence  was  gone,  however,  for  the  noise  of  the  shots 
had  brought  forth  what  populace  there  was.  Windows 
were  slapped  up  everywhere,  heads  were  out,  people  were 
running  from  side  streets,  saloon  doors  were  flipping  open 
and  flopping  shut. 

But  these  were  only  spectators,  not  helpers.  To  them 
296 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

the  chase  was  only  the  old  short,  short  story  of  the  auto- 
mobile:   "Here  it  comes;   there  it  goes!" 

They  heard  the  swish  of  tires,  the  chutter  of  the  motor. 
They  saw  headlights,  then  a  streak  like  a  great  cockroach 
scurrying,  then  a  red  tail-light  and  a  diminuendo.  Then 
another  swish  and  chutter,  another  cockroach,  a  tail- 
light,  and  silence,  and  nothing  to  do  but  ask  one  another: 
"What  was  that?     What's  the  matter?" 

Sbarra  and  his  passengers  fairly  lifted  their  taxicab  over 
the  slope  to  the  down-grade.  When  they  reached  the  top 
the  other  cab  was  gone  from  view.  The  avenue  was 
empty  for  nearly  a  mile  ahead.  Then  there  was  a  rain- 
bow of  planets  and  a  rainbow  of  stone  across  the  street. 

"The  Queensborough  Bridge,"  said  Grebe,  "that's  what 
they're  makin'  for." 

Sbarra  started  to  turn  left  at  Fifty-first  Street,  but 
Grebe  saw  with  envy  the  down  slope. 

"Coast  down  that!"  he  commanded.  "We'll  turn  left 
at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"But  we'll  lose  sight  of  them,"  Worthing  protested. 
"Turn  left!" 

"Do  as  I  tell  you,"  Grebe  thundered.  "They'll  not 
get  past  the  bridge  entrance.  The  general  alarm  must 
have  reached  there  long  ago." 

This  same  thought  had  come  to  Achilles  as  his  car 
turned  north  on  Second  Avenue  under  the  noisy  Elevated. 
He  glanced  back  and  shrieked: 

"We've  shook  'em,  t'ank  Gawd!  Dey'll  be  follerin' 
along,  dough.  Now  toin  back  to  Foist  Avenyeh  and  we'll 
get  a  clean  break." 

Blip  whirled  east  again  at  Fifty-third  Street,  and  asked: 
"Do  we  toin  nort'  or  sout'  next?" 

"Nort',  o'  course,  you  mutt.  Do  you  t'ink  we  want  to 
run  over  dat  copper  twicet?" 

The  combination  of  Grebe's  indifference  with  Achilles* 
ingenuity  resulted  in  a  meeting  of  the  two  taxicabs  at 
10  297 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Fifty-third  Street  and  First  Avenue,  to  the  tremendous 
amazement  of  both  parties. 

They  stared  at  one  another  vacantly.  Worthing's  first 
thought  was  expressed  in  a  loud  cry  of  good  cheer: 
"Muriel!  don't  be  afraid!" 

Grebe  thrust  out  his  revolver  and  yelled,  "Halt!" 

Worthing  reached  in  his  pocket  for  his  pistol  to  join 
battle.  Blip  wasted  little  time  in  wonder.  He  whirled  to 
the  left,  throwing  his  whole  cab  forward  for  a  shield.  As 
it  slewed  round  Achilles  leaned  out  and  fired  across  him. 
The  slug  of  lead  twanged  past  the  policeman's  elbow  and 
Worthing's  wrist  and  glanced  from  the  wheel.  Sbarra 
groaned  unnoticed: 

"Well,  they  got  me,  all  right." 

His  right  hand  slid  from  the  wheel,  his  left  hand  caught 
at  his  biceps  where  the  sting  was.  The  car  wabbled  and 
ran  hither  and  yon,  while  Grebe  fired  at  the  front  tire 
and  sent  a  bullet  through  the  back  of  the  other  taxicab. 

Worthing  had  only  one  thought — Muriel's  safety.  He 
was  insane  enough  to  stick  his  pistol  imder  the  police- 
man's chin  and  yell : 

"If  you  shoot  again,  I  will!" 

Grebe  did  not  hear  him.  He  tiimed  to  snarl  at  Sbarra: 
"Where  the  hell  you  drivin'?" 

The  imguided  car  was  making  for  a  lamp-post  when 
Sbarra  forced  his  hands  back  to  the  wheel  and  held  the 
course  true  while  he  shut  off  the  power.  He  yelped  back 
at  Grebe: 

"  They  got  me,  I  tell  you.     I'm  through !" 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

GREBE'S  disgust  left  no  room  for  sympathy.  He 
groaned  at  his  enforced  idleness  and  writhed  with 
chagrin  as  he  heard  Achilles'  heroic  laughter  float  back 
triumphantly. 

Worthing  was  nardened,too,by  too  much  experience  with 
wounds.  He  turned  on  the  stoic  Sbarra  with  contempt 
for  his  cowardice. 

"Go  on!"  he  shouted.   "Go  on!   You  can't  stop  here!" 

"Me -arm's  gone,"  Sbarra  shouted  back  into  his  face. 
"I  can't  run  me  car,  I  tell  you." 

Worthing  glared  at  him  a  moment,  then  he  said: 
"Well,  I  can.     Here  officer,  help  me  lift  this  man  off." 

Grebe  lent  him  a  hand,  and  the  loudly  protesting 
Sbarra  was  evicted  from  his  throne.  A  knot  of  people 
had  gathered  now,  and  a  policeman,  drawn  by  the  sound 
of  riot,  came  running  up,  so  confused  that  he  was  trying 
to  wipe  the  beer  froth  from  his  mustache  with  his  revolver, 
thinking  it  was  his  handkerchief,  and  threatening  the 
crowd  with  his  handkerchief,  thinking  it  was  his  revolver. 

Worthing  gave  him  a  glance  and  a  command  as  he 
leaned  Sbarra  against  the  lamp-post.  ' '  Call  an  ambulance 
and  give  this  man  first  aid." 

Then  he  ran  to  the  taxicab,  cranked  it  up,  slid  to  the 
wheel,  and  set  off  so  quickly  that  the  amazed  Grebe  had 
hardly  time  to  join  him.  Sbarra  sat  up  and  wailed  for 
his  cab  and  his  fare,  but  both  were  gone. 

"Where  did  you  learn  so  much?"  said  Grebe,  eyes  ahead 
on  the  very,  very  small  taxicab.     "Do  you  own  a  car?" 

"No,"  said  Worthing,  his  eyes  on  the  future.  The  car 
299 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

seemed  to  go  faster  because  he  had  something  to  do  be- 
sides watch  and  wait. 

There  were  people  enough  on  the  street  now,  and  a  few 
vehicles;  no  motors,  however,  except  a  burly  brewery- 
truck  that  went  by  like  a  building  on  skids. 

Achilles*  taxicab  vanished  under  the  broad  vault  or 
the  Queensborough  Bridge.  When  Worthing  reached  the 
other  side  of  it  the  taxicab  was  not  to  be  seen. 

Grebe  yelled  to  a  tipsy  laborer  homeward  bound: 
"Hay,  have  you  seen  a  taxicab  go  by  here  just  now?" 

The  fellow  with  great  majesty  pointed  up  Sixtieth 
Street  and  tottered  on. 

"They're  makin'  for  the  bridge  after  all,"  said  Grebe. 

The  hill  ran  up  as  the  bridge  ran  down  to  their  meet- 
ing at  Second  Avenue.  The  taxicab  grunted  and  smoked 
at  its  task,  and  Grebe  was  tempted  to  drop  off  g,nd  run 
afoot,  but  he  stuck  by  the  car.  It  had  only  two  passengers 
now,  and  Blip's  carried  five. 

As  they  gained  the  summit  there  was  no  sign  of  excite- 
ment visible.  Several  police  were  facing  south,  waiting 
for  the  cab  to  dare  the  entrance.  Another  loitered  at 
Sixtieth  Street.     Grebe  yelled  to  him: 

"  Did  you  see  a  taxicab  pass  this  way?" 

The  patrolman  pointed  down  Sixtieth  Street. 

"What  number  was  it?" 

"I  didn't  notice." 

"Oh,  you  didn't!  and  why  didn't  you,  you  big  blind 
boob?" 

The  patrolman's  rejoinder  was  not  heard  if  he  made 
one. 

"They're  makin'  for  the  Fifty-ninth  Street  entrance  of 
the  Park,"  said  Grebe.  "If  they  get  in  there  they're 
gone  for  good.  They  can  leave  the  taxi  in  the  woods  and 
hold  up  a  limousine  or  something." 

Worthing's  heart  ached  with  terror  for  Muriel,  and  with 
fatigue  as  if  it  had  been  pumping  its  own  life-blood  into 
the  engine. 

300 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

East  Sixtieth  Street  was  a  different  world  again  from 
the  others  they  had  traversed,  a  relic  of  those  old-fashioned 
brownstone  corridors  that  so  many  New  York  streets 
were,  with  stoops  all  alike  leaned  up  like  step-ladders 
against  houses  all  alike. 

At  Third  Avenue  they  shot  past  a  street-car  just  in  the 
nick  of  time  to  escape  being  hurled  against  a  pillar  of 
the  Elevated  and  doubly  destroyed. 

At  Lexington  Avenue  they  jounced  across  the  obstruc- 
tions of  the  unfinished  Subway. 

Already  the  lights  and  the  houses  indicated  that  the 
regions  of  poverty  and  toil  were  past.  The  realm  of 
luxurious  tenements  was  here.  There  was  no  dearth  of 
motors  now.  At  Park  Avenue  they  were  almost  cut  down 
by  a  touring-car  that  went  by  with  a  whurroo. 

"I've  a  mind  to  take  a  shot  at  that,"  said  Grebe. 

They  rushed  across  Madison  Avenue  and  advanced 
with  haste  toward  the  dusk  labyrinth  of  Central  Park. 
They  came  into  the  nebulous  glamour  of  the  Plaza,  misty 
with  globes  of  fire  and  with  the  cliffs  of  light  where  the 
big  hotels  were  clustered. 

There  were  many  ways  here  for  the  quarry  to  choose, 
and  there  were  man}^  cars  and  many  taxicabs  scuttling 
up  and  down  Fifth  Avenue.  The  problem  here  was  to 
find  a  needle  moving  through  a  moving  haystack. 

Grebe  fired  three  shots  into  the  air  to  warn  the  Avenue 
and  bring  out  the  police. 

And  now  Muriel  was  back  in  her  own  parish.  She 
knew  it  from  the  frightened  and  ferocious  chatter  of  the 
two  companions  with  whom  and  with  whose  destinies 
her  arms  were  locked. 

The  danger  from  collisions  and  from  bullets  caused  her 
hardly  so  much  distress  as  the  repellant  propinquity  of 
Shang  Ganley,  who  was  hke  a  toad,  heavy,  stolid,  repul- 
sive; and  of  Pep  Chu,  who  was  like  a  rat,  alert,  restless, 
sleek,  abominable.     Yet  both  treated  her  with  as  much 

301 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

respect  as  they  were  capable  of,  because  she  was  a  prize 
in  ransom,  and  the  danger  of  their  own  capture  was 
so  great  that  they  wished  to  give  her  no  extra  grievance. 
They  kept  muttering  reassurances  to  her. 

"Don't  git  skeered,  lady.  You  won't  git  hoited." 
And,  "Soon's  we  get  where  we're  goin'.  we'll  take  off  dat 
gag. 

This  last  had  become  the  most  desirable  boon  imagin- 
able— ^just  to  be  freed  from  the  chafing,  choking,  aching, 
disgusting  wad  of  cloth  that  filled  her  mouth  and  cramped 
her  tongue.  The  physical  annoyance  she  felt  to  be  un- 
bearable, but  she  had  to  bear  it.  The  inability  to  speak, 
to  protest,  to  promise  that  she  would  make  no  outcry  was 
maddening.  She  could  not  even  say,  "I  surrender." 
She  understood  what  a  curb-bitted  horse  with  a  tender 
mouth  and  high  spirit  must  undergo,  and  she  vowed 
to  deal  more  gently  with  her  own  horses  if  she  ever  got 
back  to  them. 

If  she  could  only  make  these  beasts  understand !  If  they 
would  only  let  her  speak  to  them,  write  them  a  word,  she 
would  make  them  any  promise,  give  her  parole  of  honor 
not  to  scream,  not  to  make  a  sound.  She  wanted  to  say 
that  if  any  one  stopped  the  cab  she  would  tell  the  police 
themselves  that  she  was  there  of  her  own  free  will.  If 
Worthing  came  to  her  rescue  she  would  send  him  away 
and  endure  again  that  discouraged  look  of  his.  If  she 
were  taken  from  them  by  force  she  would  collect  the  ran- 
som herself  and  carry  it  to  them  or  retiun  as  a  hostage. 

All  these  promises  she  thought  of  and  longed  to  ex- 
change for  the  mere  removal  of  that  bridle  on  her  speech, 
that  gag  upon  her  very  soul. 

And  she  would  have  kept  whatever  promise  she  gave 
at  whatever  cost.  But  the  fools  could  not  imagine  her 
thoughts;  they  would  not  have  risked  the  wise  gamble  of 
that  trust. 

And  so  Muriel  made  the  tempestuous  voyage  like  a  cul- 
prit in  irons  on  a  storm-tossed  ship,  thrown  about  in  mute 

302 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

awkwardness  whenever  the  car  skidded  or  careened,  when- 
ever it  was  checked  short  or  thrown  forward. 

Worthing's  cry  of  "Stop  that  cab !"  had  been  a  wonder- 
ful encouragement  to  her.  Then  she  had  begun  to  be 
afraid  for  him.  He  was  venturing  his  own  safety  for  her 
sake,  and  she  could  not  know  what  he  was  undergoing. 
She  wanted  to  call  out  to  him :  "Be  careful  of  your  bones, 
my  dear.     Don't  risk  too  much  for  only  me." 

Her  heart  had  astonished  her  with  that  phrase,  "My 
dear,"  as  Worthing  was  later  astoimded  to  hear  his  own 
voice  crying  out  to  her  "Muriel!"  Their  conversation 
had  always  been  formal,  but  their  souls  had  run  on  ahead 
tmnoticed,  and  their  souls  kept  flinging  out  messages  to 
each  other,  messages  that  could  not  be  transmitted  or 
received  since  the  appliances  have  not  been  invented 
yet. 

When  Muriel  heard  the  shot  that  Achilles  fired,  and  the 
groan  of  Sbarra,  and  the  jeering  laugh  of  Achilles,  she  felt 
sure  that  Worthing  had  been  wounded,  killed,  perhaps. 
She  heard  nothing  more  of  pursuit.  Shang  and  Pep  had 
been  frightened  to  a  palsy  by  the  bullet  that  ripped 
through  the  leather  top  of  the  cab,  but  the  gangsters  on 
the  front  seat  exchanged  messages  of  congratulation. 
They  had  "croaked"  somebody  and  put  the  cab  "out  of 
business." 

Miuiel  fell  back  and  gave  up  to  despair.  She  cared 
nothing  for  her  own  fate  now  since  she  could  not  go  back 
to  Worthing's  aid. 

The  breeze  whipped  the  curtain  aside  once,  and  she 
caught  sight  of  a  sign  "E.  60  St.,"  and  again  she  read 
"Madison  Avenue."  A  moment  later  a  glimpse  was 
vouchsafed  her  of  the  tall  lamps  and  the  drawn  curtains 
of  the  MetropoHtan  Club. 

"  Pipe  dat  block,  Shang,"  said  Pep.  "Dat's  de  million- 
aires' hangout — swell  place  for  a  little  second-story  woik." 

Muriel  smiled  sardonically.  Her  father  was  one  of  the 
founders,  and  a  member  of  the  house  committee  of  that 

303 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

club.  She  had  often  taken  lunch  or  dinner  in  the  women's 
wing  of  it.  There  were  friends  enough  of  her  father's  and 
hers  in  there  to  rescue  her  if  they  only  knew.  But  they 
were  playing  billiards  or  solemnly  perusing  their  royal 
sequences  in  the  card-room.  All  their  wealth  was  of  less 
help  to  her  now  than  a  puncttu"ed  tire  would  be. 

The  car  slowed  down  a  trifle  as  Achilles  debated  with 
Blip: 

"Say,  we  dassent  break  for  de  Park.  Dey  got  a  line- 
up o'  bulls  over  dere.  Flash  up  de  Avenyeh.  It's  dark. 
Maybe  we  can  break  t'rough  up  higher  somewheres.  Go 
slow  so's  nobody  won't  suspicion  nuttin'." 

They  moved  up  the  Avenue  at  a  gait  suspiciously  re- 
spectable for  a  taxicab.  Then  they  heard  the  shots  be- 
hind them  that  Grebe  had  fired. 

Achilles  stared  back  and  groaned :  "Cheese !  it's  de  same 
taxi  just  roundin'  Sixtiet'  Street.  Open  her  up  again, 
Blip." 

Muriel's  dull  heart  went  to  the  high  speed  with  a  new 
zest  for  life. 

A  note  of  grave  alarm .  shook  Achilles'  voice  now  as 
Muriel  heard  it  through  the  front  curtain. 

"Holy  Cheese!  BHp,  slow  up!  I  forgot  de  station- 
house  in  de  Park — at  de  old  Arsenal.  See,  dey  got  a 
string  of  coppers  clean  acrost  de  road.  Don't  stop  to 
toin  round.  Back  up  and  beat  it  t'rough  Sixty-fourt' 
Street  to  Madison  Avenyeh." 

The  Thirty-third  Precinct  was  indeed  waiting  with  clubs 
at  the  present  for  taxicab  number  646416.  The  cordon 
had  already  held  up  a  number  of  taxicabs,  to  the  anger  of 
several  innocent  persons  and  to  the  intense  confusion  of 
a  few  who  were  not  supposed  to  be  in  town.  Their  guilt 
of  other  misdemeanors  increased  their  indignation  at 
being  accused  out  of  their  name. 

The  police  were  so  busy  with  these  altercations  that 
they  overlooked  the  approach  and  retreat  of  the  very 
object  of  their  search. 

304 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

As  Worthing's  car  turned  into  Fifth  Avenue,  his  fiercely- 
seeking  eyes  caught  sight  of  a  taxicab  backing  down  for 
a  turn.  He  thought  its  outline  was  familiar.  It  backed 
into  the  strong  Hght  at  the  comer,  and  he  made  out  the 
long-sought  number  646416. 

"There  they  go !"  he  cried  to  Grebe.  He  had  the  profit 
of  his  headway,  and  he  took  the  comer  at  high  speed  soon. 
after  Blip  turned  it  at  low. 

At  Madison  Avenue  Blip  was  forced  north  by  an  up- 
bound  street-car  he  dared  not  try  to  pass.  Worthing 
put  after  him,  cutting  in  behind  the  street-car.  There 
was  a  seesaw  of  good  luck  and  bad  for  both  hare  and 
hound.  Old  men,  fat  women,  a  U.  S.  Mail  truck,  obsolete 
hansoms,  street-car  passengers  dashing  to  or  from  cars, 
impeded  the  progress  of  either  or  both. 

The  Thirty-first  Precinct  station  in  East  Sixty-seventh 
Street  had  guardians  out  and  a  motor-cycle  in  readiness. 
Blip  got  past  them  under  the  lee  of  a  street-car,  but 
Grebe's  shout  brought  the  motor-cycle  put-put-puttering 
after. 

The  cycle  policeman  caught  up  with  Achilles  at  Seventy- 
second  Street.  As  he  rode  up  to  command  a  halt,  Achil- 
les put  his  hand  out  to  the  wheel  and  the  car  whipped  to 
the  left  so  suddenly  that  it  sent  the  cycle  and  motorman 
toppHng  and  sprawling  with  immense  racket  almost 
under  the  wheels  of  Worthing's  car.  Worthing  had  to 
run  east  on  Seventy-second  Street  to  avoid  the  pyrotech- 
nic ruin.  But  the  adroit  Bhp  managed  to  graze  past  the 
curb  and  turn  west  again,  leaving  Worthing  to  circle 
ridiculously  in  the  lurch. 

Achilles  dared  not  try  to  force  his  way  into  Central 
Park  by  the  Seventy-second  Street  entrance,  for  he  saw 
brass  buttons  glowing  there  in  wait  for  him.  He  swomg 
into  Fifth  Avenue  again,  and  Worthing  followed  his 
traces. 

And  now  the  highway  ran  between  huddled  palaces  on 
one  side  and  the  forested  Park  on  the  other.     In  the  Park 

30s 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

the  lamps  twinkling  through  the  trees  seemed  to  move 
in  countermarching  lines  like  torch-bearers  on  parade. 

Again  Worthing's  heart  chugged  with  his  engine;  again 
the  street-lamps  edged  by  in  monotonous  numbers:  E.  75 
St.,  E.  76  St.,  E.  77  St.— E.  80  St.— E.  86  St. 

At  Ninetieth  there  was  another  entrance  to  the  Park 
and  no  one  sentineled  its  obscurity.  Worthing  followed 
Blip's  red  light  into  the  dense  shadow  and  lost  it.  But 
he  still  held  his  course  northerly  along  the  meandering 
roads.  He  pressed  along  silently,  and  there  was  nothing 
in  this  part  of  the  hunt  to  disturb  the  pensive  cahn  of  the 
midnight  grove  or  the  billing  and  cooing  of  the  few  lovers 
still  in  close  communion  on  the  benches. 

The  road  was  drawn  in  great  curves  of  indolent  circum- 
locution among  trees  so  thick  that  the  lamps  seemed  to 
be  a  kind  of  luminous  fruit  among  the  branches.  Down 
the  gorge  the  cab  dropped  and  ran  along  the  banks  of  the 
lake  where  the  lights  of  One  Hundred  and  Tenth  Street 
trailed  their  reflections  in  long  and  drooping  racemes. 

And  then  the  road  expeUed  them  upon  the  city  streets 
again,  with  clifflike  buildings  and  abundant  light.  And 
they  saw  Achilles'  taxicab  driven  westward. 

They  followed,  but  at  speed  rapidly  dwindling.  Grebe 
noted  the  slackening,  and  roared: 

"Come  on!  Come  on,  man!  What  you  hangin'  back 
for?" 

"God  help  us,  the  infernal  engine  is  running  out  of 
gas!"  Worthing  groaned.  And  the  cab  wavered  slowly 
to  a  stop.     It  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

ABOUT  this  time  Red  Ida  was  "working,"  as  she 
i\  called  it,  in  her  cabaret  far  iip-town. 

Now  she  sang,  now  she  danced,  now  she  sat  at  table 
with  whoever  beckoned;  she  exchanged  persiflage,  never 
quite  forgetting  that  she  was  there  as  "an  artist  and  a 
lady." 

To-night  her  little  brain-pan  was  simmering  over  with 
turmoil.  She  had  had  a  busy  day.  She  had  been  throt- 
tled publicly  by  her  spouse  and,  worse  yet,  sworn  at.  She 
had  seen  him  violently  assail  Muriel  Schuyler  and,  worse 
yet,  violently  admire  her. 

Ida  was  used  to  fighting  with  her  husband,  and  she  did 
not  enjoy  his  blows.  But  a  peculiar  regret  chilled  her  as 
she  remembered  the  blows  that  fell  on  Muriel.  She  had 
a  kind  of  reverence  for  women  of  that  sphere.  They  were 
of  a  finer  essence,  and  rudeness  was  profanation. 

She  had  onsets  of  ague  when  she  reaKzed  how  guilty 
a  part  she  had  borne.  It  was  she  who  had  decoyed  the 
poor  girl  to  the  trap.  She  had  revolted  later,  but  that 
was  too  late  to  acquit  her  of  her  accompHceship.  She 
would  be  arrested  if  anything  went  wrong.  So  many 
things  might  have  gone  wrong. 

When  Shang  Ganley  had  implied  that  she  was  capable 
of  betra3dng  him,  and  had  threatened  her  with  death  if 
she  did,  he  had  horrified  her  more  than  she  had  ever  been 
horrified.  He  had  previously  called  her  nearly  every 
other  name  of  abuse,  but  he  had  never  called  her  a  "snitch" 
before.     She  had  deserved  nearly  every  other  unworthy 

307 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

name,  but  never  this.  Her  innocence  of  the  few  remain- 
ing guilts  was  all  the  more  precious.  She  had  so  little 
good  repute  that  she  prized  the  remnant  doubly. 

But  terror  and  the  instinct  of  save-yoiu-self-first  were 
her  chief  emotions. 

She  scanned  every  new-comer  in  the  dread  that  he 
might  be  a  policeman.  She  studied  the  various  people 
to  see  if  any  of  them  were  plain-clothes  men.  Pep  and 
Shang  and  Achilles  might  have  killed  the  girl  by  now. 
Her  hair  grew  wet  on  her  forehead.  Her  heart  balked 
and  bucked.     Yet  she  must  sing  on. 

Despite  the  panic  in  her  soul,  she  kept  her  smile  at  work, 
and  her  new  song  had  great  success — a  syncopated  tune 
with  drawling  tones  alternating  with  rushes: 

Treat ^her like a ba by, 

Forshe'son ly  a  ba by. 

When  you  take her  withyou,  lad, 

Youare  ta kingallwehadlknow ow. 

She'll ^beacomfort to  you like  she's  al ways  been 

to  me. 
Sodobe  kind 

And  keepunhappinessaway, 
And  whenyoufind 
Her  goldenhairistuming  gray 
Con tin ue  to  treat  her  like  a  ba by. 

Ida  noted  that  Perry  Merithew  was  there  again  with 
the  same  solemn,  tawny  beauty.  It  was  Maryla,  though 
Ida  did  not  know  her  name.  To-night  Maryla  tried  to 
dance.  She  got  through  several  steps.  But  she  gave  up. 
The  insatiable  and  democratic  Perry  asked  Ida  to  finish 
the  dance. 

If  anything  could  have  solaced  her  humbled  little  heart, 
it  would  have  been  this  astonishing  rebound  from  the  dusH 
under  Shang  Ganley's  feet  to  the  arms  of  Perry  Merithew. 

She  knew  that  Perry  was  not  good,  yet  she  could  tell 
that  he  was  fine;  of  that  same  finer  essence  with  Miuriel. 

308 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Perhaps  he  knew  Miss  Schuyler.  He  ought  to  be  told 
of  her  danger.  He  might  be  able  to  save  the  girl  from — 
perhaps  from  death. 

The  need  for  telling  somebody  was  overwhelming  Ida. 
She  began  timidly  while  they  did  the  fox-trot: 

"Say,  listen!  I  got  a  secret — there's  sumpun  I  want 
to  get  off  me  chest.     You're  a  swell,  ain't  you.'"' 

Perry  laughed  awkwardly.  "Well,  I  don't  know. 
That  depends.     Why.?" 

"If  I  was  to  tell  you  sumpun  about  another  swell — a 
swell  dame,  would  you  keep  my  name  out  of  it?" 

"Yes,"  Perry  laughed.  "You  may  fire  when  ready, 
Gridley." 

"Ganley,"  corrected  Ida.  "Say,  listen — do  you  know 
Muriel  Schuyler?" 

She  felt  a  sudden  tension  in  his  arm.  He  grew  haugh- 
tier. He  felt  a  revulsion  against  the  very  use  of  that  name 
in  this  place  by  this  creature !  He  could  dance  with  Ida 
himself,  but  Ida  must  not  even  allude  to  Muriel.  She  had 
to  repeat  her  question.  He  nodded  icily.  Whereupon  she 
said: 

"Say,  listen!  Siddown  and  buy  me  a  drink  and  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  it." 

She  drew  her  chair  close  to  him  and  leaned  against  him 
as  she  told  what  she  knew  and  what  she  suspected  about 
Muriel. 

Maryla,  abandoned  at  her  table,  felt  hke  another 
Ariadne,  seeing  her  Dionysus  interested  in  another  woman. 
She  assumed  that  Perry  found  Ida  very  fascinating.  She 
could  not  understand  why.  She  did  not  understand  men, 
especially  men  like  him. 

She  made  no  complaint;  she  did  not  go  to  him  and 
scratch  out  his  eyes  and  the  eyes  of  his  vis-a-vis.  She  did 
not  send  a  waiter  to  recall  him.  She  rose  meekly  and 
slipped  out  of  the  cabaret  to  the  nest  where  he  had  estab- 
lished her. 

Perry  did  not  miss  her.  He  forgot  her  entirely.  He 
309 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

listened  spellbound  to  Ida's  confession.  She  told  him 
where  Muriel  was  held  captive  in  the  cellar,  and,  as  well  as 
she  could  remember,  the  neighborhood  of  the  place  where 
Muriel  was  to  be  taken  at  midnight.  Achilles  had  not 
di\nilged  the  exact  address  to  her.  He  did  not  believe  in 
overtaxing  the  fidelity  of  women.  She  could  recall  only 
that  it  was  up  near  Spuyten  Duyvil  Creek,  "beyond  a 
place  where  cabbages  grow  on  a  wall." 

This  last  sounded  a  trifle  remarkable  to  Perry,  but  he 
was  not  sure  where  cabbages  grew;  he  had  never  cared 
whether  they  grew  or  not. 

Perry  was  fearless  where  his  own  safety  was  concerned. 
Life  was  such  a  joke  to  him  that  he  could  be  as  brave  as 
a  lion  on  the  least  important  occasion.  Now  the  occasion 
was  most  important.  His  courage  was  ready,  he  needed 
only  the  wits  to  know  what  to  do  and  where  to  go. 

He  hurried  to  his  table,  paid  his  bill,  noted  the  absence 
of  Maryla  with  relief,  and  left  the  restaurant  tmsensa- 
tionally.  He  found  his  chauffeur  dozing  outside  and  told 
him  to  make  for  Allen  Sti^eet. 

"You  don't  mean  Allen  Street,  sir?"  said  Groden. 

"I  do!    And  hurry!" 

"But  Allen  Street  is  on  the  lower  East  Side,  sir." 

"That's  the  one  I  mean.  Get  there  as  fast  as  you  can 
without  being  arrested." 

The  moment  Red  Ida  saw  Perry  leave  the  cabaret,  she 
repented  her  caprice,  longed  to  gulp  back  the  words. 
She  dashed  through  the  startled  table-aisles  to  the  side- 
walk outside,  and  found  Groden  just  closing  Perry  into 
his  limousine.  She  thrust  her  clasped  hands  in  at  the 
open  window  and  pleaded: 

"Say,  listen!  What  I  just  been  tellin'  you — ^forget  it, 
will  you?" 

"Never,  my  dear  young  lady,"  Perry  had  answered, 
gallantly.  "I'll  never  forget  it.  And  if  it  proves  true, 
I'll  remember  it  handsomely." 

"But  I  had  a  right  not  to  'a'  told  you!"  she  urged. 

310 


gflHl6$    llicHTComejjy  -nAGf 


Worthing  had  onl}-  one 


lought — Muriel's  safety. 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Groden,  not  seeing  her,  had  gone  to  his  place  and 
started  the  car  in  motion. 

"Watch  out,  my  dear,  you'll  be  hurt,"  Perry  said,  and 
thrust  her  hands  away. 

She  called  after  him:  "It  ain't  true.  I  was  on'y  josh- 
in'  you." 

But  he  had  not  heard.  He  had  been  too  bent  on 
Muriel's  rescue  to  pay  fiuther  heed  to  Ida.  She  stood  a 
moment  on  the  sidewalk,  wringing  her  hands,  till  she  saw 
that  the  passers-by  were  taking  notice  of  her.  She  gave 
them  a  bit  of  lip  and  ran  back  into  the  cabaret. 

Manners  were  informal  there  and  explanations  cynical. 
Her  exit  had  provoked  a  laugh.  Her  return  was  greeted 
with  ironic  applause.  The  simian  pianist  had  been 
"vamping  till  ready,"  and  she  broke  into  the  song  from 
the  door. 

But  she  was  beset  by  the  thought  of  her  treachery  to 
her  husband — ^not  much  of  a  husband,  but  the  only  one 
she  ever  had.  She  could  not  finish  her  song.  She  mum- 
bled excuses  to  leave,  dashed  for  her  hat  and  her  cloak, 
and  ran  to  the  Subway,  looking  Hke  an  escaped  mas- 
querader.  Perhaps  she  could  get  home  in  time  to  warn 
Shang.     He  would  kill  her,  but  she  might  save  him. 

Meanwhile  Perry's  car  ran  with  the  velvet  speed  of  a 
panther,  slowing  up  only  where  a  policeman  was  visible, 
or  probable. 

The  impetuous  Merithew  had  set  out  to  the  rescue  at  full 
tilt.  Gradually  it  came  over  him  that  he  had  no  weapon 
to  tilt  with.  He  was  going  to  raid  a  dive  in  the  slums, 
not  merely  single-handed,  but  empty-handed.  By  the 
time  his  car  was  finishing  its  passage  through  Central  Park 
he  was  convinced  that  he  must  have  help.  But  whom 
could  he  get,  and  where?  The  police  were  the  last  people 
he  wanted  to  call  in,  since  the  police  implied  the  reporters, 
and  he  had  a  profound  abhorrence  of  publicity. 

The  offices  of  private  detectives  were  not  open  at  mid- 
night, and.  besides,  he  did  not  know  any  private  detectives. 

315 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

But  Perry  was  not  destined  to  visit  the  sliims  this 
night.  As  the  car  came  out  of  the  black  forest  of  Central 
Park  into  the  glistening  Plaza,  he  heard  a  shot.  He 
thought  it  only  the  usual  blow-out.  He  heard  other  shots 
— a  soimd  of  voices.  He  had  heard  the  shots  and  shouts 
of  Grebe  as  the  taxicab  that  Worthing  was  driving  had 
approached  Fifth  Avenue  in  its  pursuit  of  the  gunmen. 

Perry  rapped  on  the  glass.  His  car  stopped.  He  put 
his  head  out  and  saw  that  there  was  excitement  on  the 
moonlit  reaches  of  upper  Fifth  Avenue. 

The  gleaming  facades  of  the  Plaza  Hotel  confronted  him. 
Merithew  had  a  large  hotel  acquaintance.  He  owed  so 
much  money  at  so  many  hotels  that  he  was  welcome  every- 
where. He  was  slow  at  paying  bills,  but  ever  ready  with 
tips. 

He  thought  he  knew  one  of  the  house  detectives — a 
man  named  Lumm — at  the  Plaza;  he  signaled  Groden 
to  pull  up  at  the  hotel. 

He  found  Ltmim  on  the  outer  steps,  whither  he  had 
been  drawn  by  the  sound  of  the  warning  shots  from 
Grebe's  pistol.  The  detective  was  more  or  less  disguised 
as  a  guest  in  a  dinner  jacket. 

"Oh,  hello!"  said  Perry.  "What's  the  racket  up  the 
street.?" 

"I  don't  loiow,  sir.  I  was  just  going  to  telephone 
headquarters  and  see  if  they  know." 

"Good  idea,"  said  Perry.  "And  I'd  like  a  word  with 
you  when  you  come  back." 

Perry  went  to  the  tobacco-stand,  replenished  his  case, 
lighted  a  cigar,  and  was  telling  the  chdtelaine  in  charge 
how  unusually  stunning  she  was  this  evening,  when  he 
felt  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Pet"  Bettany  was  murmuring  to  him  with  saccharin- 
ity:  "Buy  me  a  box  of  cigarettes,  dear.  I'm  with  Winnie 
NicoUs,  and  he  doesn't  believe  in  -women  smoking,  and 
I'm  famishing.     Be  quick." 

The  experienced  tobacconette  slid  a  box  surreptitiously 
.^i6 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

to  Perry,  who  slipped  it  to  Pet,  who  smuggled  it  into  her 
handkerchief  just  as  "Winnie"  NicoUs  escaped  from  the 
hook  of  some  other  fisherwoman  and  came  back  to  Pet's 
bait. 

Winnie  was  in  love  with  Muriel,  and  afraid  of  Pet ;  but 
Muriel  had  treated  him  shabbily,  and  he  had  fallen  easy 
prey  to  Pet. 

"Hello!"  said  Perry.  "I'm  just  getting  some  cigars. 
Have  one?" 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Winnie,  who  did  not  like  Merithew 
even  well  enough  to  smoke  his  tobacco.  He  took  out  his 
own  cigar-case  and  helped  himself. 

Perry  recognized  the  faint  insult  with  a  smile.  "Your 
mother  doesn't  like  me,  either,"  he  said.  "She  invited 
my  wife  to  her  big  splurge  and  left  me  out." 

Winnie's  only  comment  was  a  puff  of  smoke  that  veiled 
his  smile.     Perry  said: 

"Didn't  she  invite  you,  either.  Pet?" 

"Oh  yes,  but  I  can't  go,"  Pet  smiled.  "Poor  mother 
is  not  well  enough  to  be  left.  I  just  ran  out  for  a  little 
air  in  Winnie's  new  racer." 

"I  see — you're  in  your  trained-nurse  uniform,"  said 
Perry,  with  a  glance  at  her  iridescent  gown  with  much 
skin  revealed  and  much  more  indicated.  "That  gown 
is  the  sort  that  F.  P.  A.  called  'Low  and  Behold  in  the 
front,  and  the  V  de  Bohdme  in  the  back.'  " 

Then  Mr.  Lumm,  the  house  detective,  came  back  and 
said  to  him:  "  I  called  up  headquarters,  Mr.  Merithew,  and 
they  say  that  Aliss  Muriel  Schuyler  has  been  kidnapped." 

Winnie  Nicolls's  cigar  dropped  from  his  lips.  Pet's 
box  of  cigarettes  fell  from  her  handkerchief. 

"I  knew  that,"  said  Perry. 

The  detective  went  on:  "The  gang's  got  her  in  a  taxi- 
cab.  Those  shots  was  the  police  after  her.  They're 
headed  north  for  the  Bronx.  Prob'ly  they're  in  Central 
Park  by  now,  I  guess." 

Winnie  Nicolls  did  not  pause  for  good-nights.  He 
317 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

dashed  across  the  lobby,  bowling  over  two  pages.  Pet 
did  not  notice  his  flight.  She  was  listening  to  Merry  Perry, 
who  was  saying  to  the  detective: 

"  That's  what  I  want  to  see  you  about."  He  led  Lumm 
aside.  "I  think  I  know  where  they're  taking  Miss 
Schuyler.     I  need  a  man  and  a  gun.     You  come  along." 

" I  can't  very  well  get  off,"  said  Limun.  "The  manager 
wouldn't  like  it." 

"Where's  the  manager?"  said  Perry. 

He  seized  the  detective  by  the  elbow  and  haled  him  to 
the  office.  Now  Pet  found  herself  alone — in  the  pitiful 
fate  of  a  young  girl  alone  in  the  Plaza  at  midnight. 

She  was  swearing-mad.  It  was  the  starter  who  helped 
her  into  a  taxicab.  When  she  got  home  she  told  the 
driver  to  "charge  it  to  the  hotel."  She  had  no  account, 
at  the  hotel, 

Winnie  Nicolls  was  a  timid  young  son  of  Croesus, 
except  in  the  saddle  or  under  the  wheel  of  an  automobile. 
There  he  became  a  demon  of  recklessness. 

He  leaped  into  his  ninety-horse-power  racer,  and  swung 
into  the  Park  with  the  swathe  of  a  huge  scythe.  Through 
the  deep  thickets  he  drove  his  car,  groaning  at  the  sinuous 
indirectness  of  the  roads.  He  went  hooting  through  and 
paid  no  heed  to  the  vain  challenges  of  policemen.  But 
when  he  shot  from  the  top  gate  of  the  Park  at  One  Hun- 
dred and  Tenth  Street  he  did  not  know  which  way  to  turn. 

He  saw  a  stranded  taxicab  at  whose  side  Worthing 
stood  with  the  dejected  Roundsman  Grebe.  He  rushed 
to  them  and  called  out: 

"I  say,  did  you  see  a  taxicab  go  this  way?" 

"We're  follerin'  one  now,"  said  Officer  Grebe.  "We 
can  use  you." 

"Get  in!"  said  Winnie,  swinging  his  door  open  with 
one  hand.  Worthing  and  Grebe  ran  alongside  and 
stumbled  in. 

"Up  Seventh  Avenue  it  went,  most  likely,"  said  Grebe. 
318 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

But  when  they  reached  this  broad  highway  to  the  north 
an  officer  was  there  who  saw  that  Grebe  was  a  policeman 
and  ran  out,  calling  to  him: 

"They  went  up  the  Cat'edral  Parkway.  I  whistled 
*em  to  stop,  but — " 

His  voice  trailed  off  into  silence,  for  Winnie  threw,  as 
it  were,  his  bridle  on  the  neck  of  the  steed. 

"This  is  something  like,"  said  Grebe,  as  the  racer 
plunged  forward  with  the  zeal  of  a  running-horse  break- 
ing from  the  starting-wire.  The  car  throbbed  indeed 
with  the  tremendous  energy  of  a  runaway  stallion.  It 
snorted  and  bolted,  and  galloped  ventre-d-terre  without 
shock  of  hoofs. 

On  the  great  letter  "S"  of  the  loop  of  the  Elevated  a 
train  crawled  like  a  caterpillar  with  gleaming  scales. 
Then  the  heights  called  Momingside — because  they  are 
on  the  Eveningside — rose  to  uphold  the  "Acropolis  of 
New  York";  but  the  car  did  not  halt  at  the  steep  climb. 
It  ran  up  the  Heights  with  a  swoop  of  joy  like  a  wave 
boiling  up  a  cliff. 

The  keen-eyed  huntsmen  paid  no  heed  to  the  Cathedral 
of  St.  John  the  Divine — twelve  years  building  and  still 
hardly  more  shapely  than  a  beached  whale,  with  derricks 
and  cranes  still  part  of  the  sky-line  and  a  few  angels  stand- 
ing about  as  stiffly  as  prematurely  arrived  guests. 

Winnie  Nicolls  and  his  company  were  wondering  which 
of  the  two  roads  to  take  through  Momingside  Park. 
There  was  no  time  for  debate.  Winnie,  like  a  good  boy, 
turned  to  the  right.  In  the  taxicab  that  carried  Muriel 
Achilles  had  chosen  the  left. 

The  glory  of  that  great  bastioned  mesa-land  over- 
looking the  city,  as  a  cliff  a  dark  sea  twinkling  with  stars, 
was  only  irritation  for  the  pursuers.  They  needed  only  a 
vile  brown  taxicab  to  make  any  prospect  beautiful. 

As  they  whizzed  along  Winnie  began  to  ask  questions 
which  answered  the  imspoken  questions  Worthing  was 
unwilling  to  begin. 

319 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Is  it  true  that  Miss  Muriel  Schujder  is  kidnapped? 
I  was  at  the  Plaza  Hotel  taldng  supper  with  Miss —  Well, 
I'm  Mr.  Winthrop  Nicolls,  by  the  way.  We  heard  shots. 
The  house  detective  called  up  the  police,  and  they  told 
him  it  was  Miss  Schuyler.     Are  you  sure  that  it  is.?" 

Worthing,  with  a  doleful  recognition  of  the  man's 
wealth  and  his  evident  interest,  asstu-ed  him  that  it  was. 

Winnie  chuckled:  "I  hope  we  can  catch  the  rascals. 
I'd  Hke  to  take  her  home  in  this  car.  She  rode  in  it  the 
first  day  I  got  it — christened  it — sort  of." 

They  sped  through  the  park  and  turned  out  on  Am- 
sterdam Avenue  at  One  Himdred  and  Twenty-third 
Street.  It  was  free  of  taxicabs  as  far  beyond  as  they 
could  see. 

"We  must  have  overrun  them,"  said  Winnie,  and 
whirled  to  the  left.  Somewhere  below  a  taxicab  dashed 
across  the  avenue,  bound  west.  Winnie  threw  all  his  power 
on,  and  burned  the  pavement  to  One  Hundred  and  Six- 
teenth Street,  then  turned  west  on  the  inside  wheels, 
Grebe  hanging  out  like  a  mechanician  in  a  motor-race. 

They  could  just  see  a  red  tail-light  glimmering  into 
the  trees  of  Riverside  Drive.  They  went  through  Colum- 
bia University  with  no  interest  in  its  scholastic  halls, 
doubly  silent  with  night  and  vacation-time.  Even  the 
Seth  Low  Library — the  noblest  monimient  a  man  ever 
built  his  father — did  not  win  a  glance. 

"  It  took  me  five  years  to  go  through  Columbia  before," 
Winnie  said.  "This  is  better."  He  always  said  that 
when  he  motored  through.  He  used  to  motor  through 
so  that  he  might  say  it.  He  had  to  say  it  even  now  when 
his  heart  was  full  of  such  post-graduate  excitement. 

Down  into  the  borderland  they  plunged,  then  up  along 
the  darkling  Hudson  unshackled  with  bridges.  Where 
Grant's  peak-capped  tomb  divided  the  road,  Winnie  chose 
this  time  the  left  since  the  right  had  proved  unlucky  be- 
fore.    He  had  lost  the  red  will-o'-the  wisp  altogether  now. 

He  reined  in  his  steed,  a  little  bewildered.  "They 
320 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

cotildn't  have  stopped  at  Claremont  for  a  drink,  could 
they?" 

Greb6  and  Worthing  felt  sure  that  they  had  not.  So 
he  ran  down  the  hill  and  out  on  the  long,  long  viaduct 
that  carries  the  Drive  across  the  deep  gorge  of  Manhattan 
Valley. 

Across  its  whole  quarter  of  a  mile  of  length  there  was 
not  a  soul  \'isible,  not  a  policeman  or  a  vehicle  of  any 
kind. 

Winnie  let  the  car  run  on  while  they  discussed  the  pos- 
sibiHties.  They  had  overlooked  the  road  at  the  side  of 
the  viaduct  which  dips  steeply  down  into  the  valley. 
Achilles,  with  Grecian  wile,  had  assimied  that  this  was 
the  safer  to  take  since  it  was  the  more  unreasonable. 

Worthing,  who  had  lost  half  his  zeal  in  the  presence  of 
his  overwhelming  rival,  had  a  half-hearted  idea: 

"They'll  be  going  north  somewhere,  most  likely.  We'd 
better  go  on;  we  might  head  them  off  yet." 

They  maintained  a  listless  gait  to  the  end  of  the  viaduct 
and  beyond  a  little.  The  Drive  was  again  one  sleepy 
solitude.  Worthing  turned  to  look  back,  and  caught  sight 
of  a  taxicab  with  two  men  on  the  front  seat  just  pulling 
up  the  hill  from  under  the  viaduct. 

He  called  out:   "There  they  are'    Back  there!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

IN  the  still  air  Achilles,  who  had  seen  the  car  ahead, 
heard  Worthing's  voice.  Miiriel  in  the  dark  heard 
only  a  faint  cry,  but  she  heard  Achilles'  startled  com- 
mand: 

"To  de  right!  To  de  right!  Dat  ain't  no  taxicab.  I 
wonner  who  dose  guys  are.  Police,  I  bet.  Dey  want  us, 
all  right." 

The  overworked  taxicab  groaned  up  the  hill  of  One 
Hundred  and  Thirty-sixth  Street  drearily.  Now  it  was 
Achilles'  turn  to  complain  of  the  fagged-out  motor. 

They  had  worried  to  the  top  of  the  rise  before  they 
saw  the  headlights  of  Nicolls's  car  swing  round  the  comer 
below.  They  resisted  the  temptations  of  Broadway  and 
Amsterdam  Avenue  because  they  were  wide  and  brightly 
lighted  and  dotted  with  poHcemen. 

They  chugged  on  to  Convent  Avenue,  and  Muriel  could 
hear  again  that  quaver  of  anxiety  in  Achilles'  voice  as 
he  leaned  far  out  and  spoke  through  a  twisted  neck  in  a 
strangled  voice. 

"Here  dey  come,  and  goin'  like  a  house  afire.  Toin 
nort'  here.    We  gotta  do  some  dodgin'.     Where  are  we, 


anyway 


"Convent  Avenyeh,"  said  Blip.  "De  Convent  of  de 
Sacred  Heart  is  just  below.     Me  sister  used  to  go  to  it." 

"To  hell  wit'  your  sister — and  your  taxicab,"  said 
Achilles.  "If  dose  guys  gits  too  clost,  I  gotta  take  a  shot 
at  deir  tires;  dey's  nuttin'  to  it." 

They  ran  imder  the  arched  gateways  into  the  quad- 
rangle of  a  sltmibering  group  of  buildings.     There  was 

322 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

something  about  the  white-bordered  architecture  that 
gave  Achilles  discomfort. 

"Say,  what  is  dis  place,"  he  whined,  "a  jail  or  a  bug- 
house?" 

"It's  de  City  CoUudge,"  said  Blip. 

"Well,  git  out  of  it;  it  makes  me  oneasy."  He  strained 
to  look  back  again.  "Dere's  deir  search-light  waverin'. 
We  got  'em  guessin'.  No,  dey're  comin'  dis  way.  If  we 
on'y  had  anudder  car.  Gawd!  to  be  froze  to  a  dump- 
cart  like  dis.  I'll  fix  you  when  I  git  out!  We  gotta  shift 
to  somebody's  else's  machine  if  we  have  to  shoot  de 
cheflure.  Gawd!  look  at  'em  come!  Ain't  dey  got  no 
respect  for  de  speed  laws?  Toin  off  o'  here — to  de  right! 
To  de  right!" 

"Dere  ain't  no  street  to  de  right,"  growled  Blip. 

"To  de  left  den,  you  loafer!" 

The  rattle-brained  Blip  turned  to  the  left,  up  One  Htm- 
dred  and  Forty-third  Street. 

"Toin  to  de  nort'  on  de  foist  street  you  cometa,"  Achil- 
les snarled.  But  at  Amsterdam  Avenue  there  were  two 
policemen.  They  were  waiting.  They  read  the  long- 
desired  number — 646416 — on  the  radiator  and  they  ran 
forward,  shouting: 

"Say,  we  want  you!    Stop  or  I'll  fire!" 

Achilles  took  aim  at  the  nearer  of  them,  but  Blip  swerved 
back  to  the  southwest  into  Hamilton  Place,  which  ran  on 
the  bias  with  the  other  streets.  Achilles  did  not  fire.  But 
both  policemen  did,  and  one  of  them  sent  a  bullet  into  an 
overheated  rear  shoe,  and  it  blew  up  with  a  terrifying 
sound.    But  the  cab  ran  on  unchecked,  though  roughher. 

Shang  and  Pep  thought  that  a  cannon  had  planted  a 
shell  vmder  the  car,  and  they  crowded  down  into  the  small 
foot-space,  dragging  Muriel  with  them.  And  just  in 
time,  for  another  bullet  glancing  from  the  pavement  made 
a  ricochet  and  tore  a  ragged  hole  through  the  leather.  An- 
other smashed  the  little  mica  window  in  the  back  curtain. 

The  very  taxicab  seemed  to  take  fright  and  to  speed 
.^23 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

with  final  energy.  In  their  chattering  terror  Shang  and 
Pep  let  go  of  Muriel's  wrists.  Now  she  tore  at  the  gag, 
released  herself  from  it,  and,  gulping  in  a  joyous  breath  of 
air,  flung  herself  toward  the  window  and  sent  one  wild, 
white  shriek  into  the  blue  stillness. 

Shang  clamped  his  hand  over  her  mouth  and  dragged 
her  back.  There  was  a  brief  wrestle  in  the  huddle,  then 
Pep  Chu's  grim  little  voice  in  Muriel's  ear: 

"Shut  up,  damn  you,  or  I'll  croak  you  in  a  minute. 
Dat's  a  gun  I  got  against  you,  and  I'll  blow  a  hole  in  you 
if  you  make  a  whisper.  I'd  just  as  soon  as  not — a  little 
sooner!" 

There  was  a  maniac  twang  in  his  voice  that  frightened 
her  to  silence.  There  were  no  more  shots,  no  noise.  They 
had  outrun  the  police  again. 

Muriel's  angry  soul  longed  to  fight  free,  but  she  did  not 
want  the  freedom  of  death.  She  wanted  to  get  back  to 
life  and  her  mother  and  her  father. 

She  let  the  men  lift  her  back  to  the  seat.  She  began 
to  sob. 

Again  that  insane  command  of  Pep's,  the  pressure  of 
that  muzzle  under  her  arm.  She  felt  what  a  bullet  would 
do,  and  she  was  too  cowed  even  to  weep. 

She  heard  Achilles  muttering  softly  to  Blip  in  terror 
equal  to  her  own.  Then  she  heard  a  note  of  joy  in  his 
voice. 

"Toin  up  here.     Toin  up  here." 

"Dat's  a  hill.     We  can't  make  it." 

"  Go  as  fur  as  you  kin.  Dere's  what  I  been  prajrin'  for. 
Go  on  past  him!" 

Blip  turned  into  the  steep  of  One  Hundred  and  Thirty- 
eighth  Street,  where  the  great  red  building  of  the  Jewish 
Orphan  Asylum  in  a  big  walled  yard  stood  up  against  the 
sky.  On  his  left  a  row  of  apartment-houses  was  aligned 
with  a  zigzag  of  stoops  down  the  slanting  street. 

In  front  of  one  of  the  lowest  houses  stood  a  limousine 
with  a  chauffeur  asleep  on  the  box.     His  employer  had 

324 


JUBt  tntKB-av  "^ijee 


'HE  made  no  resistance.     Shang  simply  kept  saying 
>  "Remember,  lady,  remember." 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

perhaps  brought  home  his  fiancee  or  somebody  from  a  late 
dance,  and  was  lingering  over  the  farewells  inside. 

The  taxicab  did  not  wake  the  chauffeur  as  it  rattled  by 
and  stopped  at  the  opposite  curb.  Achilles  did  not  wake 
him  as  he  pussy-footed  across  the  street,  stepped  lightly 
on  the  running-board,  bent  over,  throttled  the  chauffeur 
with  his  left  hand,  and  gave  his  popping  eyes  a  sight  of 
a  hideous  little  automatic  pistol. 

Achilles  explained  in  a  hasty  whisper:  "  Say,  young  feller, 
if  you  wanta  keep  your  healt',  you  run  dis  car  where  I 
tell  you.  I'll  be  inside  wit'  some  frien's.  I'll  have  dis 
gun  under  de  back  of  your  conk,  and  if  you  don't  say 
what  I  tell  you  to,  and  nuttin'  else,  I'll  shoot  it  off.  Do 
you  get  me?" 

The  chauffeur  got  him.  Achilles  motioned.  Blip 
opened  the  door  and  beckoned.  Shang  and  Pep  sup- 
ported Muriel  to  the  pavement  and  helped  her  across  the 
street.     She  made  no  resistance  and  no  sign. 

Pep  simply  kept  saying,  "Remember,  lady,  remember." 

In  the  light  of  the  lamp-post  she  glanced  down  and  saw 
the  weapon.     It  was  an  ugly  thing. 

Achilles  rushed  his  passengers  aboard  with  the  rough 
speed  of  a  Brooklyn  Bridge  street-car  conductor.  He 
crowded  in  after  them.  He  lowered  the  front  glass  and 
made  them  all  crouch  down.  Then  he  set  his  pistol  be- 
tween the  shoulder-blades  of  the  chauffeur  and  said: 

"Beat  it  now.  Toin  up  dis  foist  street.  If  anybody 
asts  you  did  you  see  a  taxicab,  tell  de  trut'.  Say  you  seen 
it  goin'  up  where  you  seen  it.  But  don't  say  no  more  or 
— or  you  know!" 

The  limousine  moved  off  down  the  hill  and  whirled 
round  the  comer.  The  chauffeur  had  not  spoken  yet. 
Nor  did  he  speak  till  he  met  a  racing-car  carrying  three 
wildly  excited  men,  one  of  them  a  policeman,  who  yelled: 

"Did  you  see  a  taxi  go  this  way?" 

Then  the  chauffeur  motioned  back  and  answered :  "Yes, 
they — they  turned  up — ^up  down  there." 

327 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

It  '^vas  a  weak  and  choking  voice,  but  he  said  it.  He 
said  it  again  to  the  two  policemen  who  followed  on  foot 
in  lumbering  breathlessness. 

Then  he  tooled  the  Itixurious  car  on  and  on  and  on 
through  Amsterdam  Avenue  to  St.  Nicholas,  to  Broadway 
— an  everlasting  Broadway.  Miuiel  gave  up  all  hope  now, 
and  asked  Heaven  only  for  an  end  to  the  journey.  She 
could  tell,  by  the  rollicking  reports  Achilles  made  to  Blip, 
that  there  was  no  sign  of  pursuit — no  car  at  all  following 
them. 

At  the  Ship  Canal  Bridge  a  group  of  policemen  waiting 
for  a  taxicab  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  the  limousine. 

They  had  paid  no  more  attention  to  Perry  Merithew's 
limousine,  which  had  gone  by  a  little  earlier,  carrjang 
Mr.  Merithew  and  a  heavily  armed  house  detective  smok- 
ing an  excellent  cigar. 

The  lowlands  at  the  edge  of  Spuyten  Du5rvril  Creek, 
where  it  leaves  the  Harlem  River  just  long  enough  to 
circle  Marble  Hill  and  return,  are  unhandsome  in  the 
daylight.  After  midnight  they  take  on  a  kind  of  spooky 
quaHty  due  rather  to  the  deserted  warehouses,  train-sheds, 
and  rookery  cottages  than  to  the  tradition  of  the  devil  who 
took  the  shape  of  a  great  herring  and  dragged  old  Peter 
Stuyvesant's  defiant  trumpeter  down  in  the  htmgry  waters. 

"Ghastly  sort  of  place,  eh?"  Perry  was  saying  to  Mr. 
Ltmim,  as  the  car  bumped  and  poked  this  way  and  that 
around  Two  Hundred  and  Thirtieth  Street  into  the  rutty 
Spuyten  Duyvil  road. 

*  "The  girl  said  the  house  was  not  far  from  a  place  where 
cabbages  grow  on  a  wall,"  he  went  on.  "Sounds  sort  of 
vague;  but  that  was  as  much  as  her  dear  husband  told 
her." 

"It  listens  like  a  dope-dream  to  me,"  said  the  detec- 
tive. "I  ain't  no  farmer,  but  I've  et  cabbages,  and  I 
never  heard  of  'em  growin'  on  walls.  Maybe  she's 
thinkin'  of  turnips." 

328 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

*'  Look !"  said  Perry.     "  There  they  are !" 

Groden  had  stopped  the  car  so  that  its  headlights  il- 
luminated a  steep  hillside  of  shalelike  formation  with  lit- 
tle shreds  of  earth  like  mortar  between  stones.  In  this 
poor  soil  a  fond  and  ingenious  householder  had  wrung 
from  miserly  nature  sustenance  enough  for  rows  on  rows 
of  cabbages.  On  this  almost  vertical  field  they  grew  in 
generous  profusion  like  massive  green  roses  on  a  wall. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned,"  said  the  detective. 

"I'm  with  you,"  said  Perry.  He  signaled  his  chauffeur 
to  move  on.  They  came  soon  to  a  dark  and  narrow  angle 
of  the  road  and  stopped. 

With  difficulty  Groden  turned  his  car  and  faced  back 
along  the  road,  covering  it  with  his  headlights.  In  the 
shadow  Perry,  all  atremble  with  joy  of  the  adventure, 
took  his  stand  with  a  revolver  in  his  hand.  The  detective 
moved  down  a  little  farther  with  two  in  his  hands. 

After  a  long,  long  wait  two  other  eyes  gleamed  down 
the  road  like  a  great  wild  beast's.  They  came  fon\^ard 
with  almost  questioning  deHberation.  Groden  honked 
his  horn.  Blip  was  now  at  the  wheel  of  the  stolen  limou- 
sine; the  chauffeur  had  been  dropped  in  the  dark  some 
distance  back.     Blip  honked  his  horn.     Achilles  yelled: 

"Git  out  de  way!" 

The  invisible  Groden  honked  his  horn  for  answer. 
Blip  stopped  his  car.  Achilles  jimiped  off  and  ran  for- 
ward to  protest.  He  ran  into  the  dark  and  found  Groden 's 
gun  staring  at  him. 

"Put  'em  up,"  said  Groden. 

They  went  up. 

Then  the  detective's  voice  came  from  the  shadow  near 
BHp. 

"AU  out,  boys.     This  is  your  last  stop." 

Shang  and  Pep,  imagining  that  they  had  reached  their 
destination,  clambered  out  on  either  side,  shaking  their 
legs.  Pep  clambered  into  the  detective's  revolver.  Shang 
heard  Pep  gasp: 

II  329 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Beat  it,  de  bulls." 

Pep  surrendered. 

Shang  slid  off  in  the  dark  and  vanished. 

Miiriel,  wondering,  saw  a  hand  outstretched,  and  heard 
a  purring  voice: 

"Miss  Schuyler,  permit  me." 

"Mr.  Merithew!"  She  gasped  as  she  got  out.  "But 
wh-where's  Dr.  Worthing?" 

"Doctor  who?  There's  no  doctor  for  miles!  Are  you 
hurt?    Are  you  ill?" 

"Yes,  I— I  beHeve  I  am." 

And  then  at  last  she  learned  what  it  was  to  faint. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

NOTHING  surprises  or  upsets  a  man  so  much,  or  finds 
him  so  unready  as  a  full  answer  to  a  prayer  or  the 
complete  success  of  a  scheme.  Those  who  have  petitioned 
for  rain  and  got  it,  never  yet  have  had  their  umbrellas 
with  them  nor  their  galoshes  on. 

When  little  Mrs.  "Red  Ida"  Ganley,  in  an  emulsion 
of  remorse  and  revenge,  told  Perry  Merithew  that  her 
husband  and  his  pack  had  kidnapped  Muriel  Schuyler, 
Merry  Perry  made  a  knightly  sortie  in  his  unwarlike 
limousine.  All  the  way  he  had  been  praying  and  planning, 
but  praying  apparently  without  faith,  since  his  triumph 
astounded  him  utterly.  Evidently  prayers  are  granted 
also  to  skepticism. 

At  any  case,  there  stood  Perry  with  Mtuiel  Schuyler 
comfortably  aswoon  and  draped  safely  across  his  arm; 
and  there  stood  three  of  the  four  gangsters  with  their 
hands  aloft  in  front  of  his  pistol  and  the  pistols  of  his 
chauffeur  and  the  house  detective. 

What  Dr.  Worthing  and  his  taxi-driver,  and  Winthrop 
Nicolls  and  his  ninety-horse-power  racer,  and  all  the  police 
force  of  New  York  had  failed  to  accomplish  after  a  fero- 
cious man-hunt  through  the  city.  Perry  Merithew  had 
jauntily  achieved  Mdthout  half  trying. 

Now  that  his  problem  was  solved,  it  opened  up  a  new 
problem.     As  always  happens. 

To  ttuTi  the  criminals  over  to  the  authorities  was  plain- 
ly his  civic  duty.  But  that  meant  to  turn  Muriel  over 
to  the  higher  authorities  of  the  newspapers.  She  had  stif- 
fered  enough  from  the  gunmen,  he  thought,  without  being 
thrown  into  the  power  of  the  penmen. 

331 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

Perry  was  so  befuddled  with  the  problem  that  the 
neglected  Muriel,  despairing  of  being  resuscitated  by  the 
proper  attentions,  came  back  to  consciousness  unaided. 
In  the  gloom  of  the  lonely  road  she  felt  at  first  that  she 
was  sitting  up.  in  her  own  bed  after  a  nightmare.  The 
searing  glare  of  the  headlights  confused  her  further. 
Then  she  descried  the  gunmen  with  their  palms  uplifted 
in  priestly  attitude.  She  remembered  the  long  Brocken- 
ride  she  had  made  through  midnight  New  York.  She 
felt  the  raw  pain  of  her  abraded  lips,  the  ache  of  her  jaws 
from  the  gag.  She  winced  again  at  the  bitter  fact  that 
it  was  Perry  Merithew  and  not  Dr.  Worthing  who  had 
saved  her.     She  could  not  understand  it  at  all. 

Perry  thought  that  Muriel,  having  been  the  innocent 
victim  of  criminals,  should  not  be  subjected  to  worse 
ptmishment  at  the  hands  of  justice.  He  had  very  decent 
traits,  had  Perry,  and  he  was  in  one  of  his  most  admirable 
moods. 

He  asked  the  house  detective  to  guard  the  prisoners 
while  he  conferred  with  Miss  Schuyler.  He  led  Muriel 
a  few  paces  aloof  from  the  immobilized  gang.  She  began 
at  once  a  belated  speech  of  gratitude. 

"It's  perfectly  glorious  of  you  to  have  saved  me.  I 
don't  know  how  I  can  find  words  to  tell  you  how  grateful 
I  am." 

"Don't  try,"  said  Perry.  "It  isn't  worth  the  trouble. 
It  is  reward  enough  to  have  been  of  any  service  to  you, 
Miss  Schuyler.  But  I'm  in  great  distress.  I  don't  loiow 
what  to  do  next." 

She  had  got  her  thanks  off  her  chest,  and  she  felt  better. 
She  said,  curtly:  "The  next  thing  is  to  get  me  home 
somehow,  isn't  it?     I'm  pretty  tired,  you  know." 

"You  must  be,  you  poor  child;  but  what  am  I  to  do 
with  these  three  little  gunmen?" 

"  You'd  better  keep  them  out  of  my  reach  or  there  won't 
be  enough  left  of  them  to  turn  over  to  the  police." 

"That  would  be  the  best  way  out  of  it,  if  you  could 
332 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

destroy  them  entirely,  because  the  poUce  include  the  re- 
porters, and  the  head-lines,  interviews,  portraits  on  the 
front  page." 

Muriel  had  been  brought  up  in  an  honest,  press-fearing 
family.  She  had  seen  what  the  newspapers  had  done  to 
certain  of  her  acquaintances  who  had  stumbled  into  the 
calcium-light. 

" O  Lord !"  she  groaned.  "That  '11  be  worse  than  being 
gagged  in  the  dark.  I  don't  see  what  I've  done  to  deserve 
all  this  except  to  disobey  my  father.  It  pays  me  up  for 
going  slumming  against  his  orders.  I'm  glad  he  and 
mother  are  on  the  yacht  and  won't  know  about  it."  She 
fumed  a  moment,  then  lifted  her  head  bravely.  "All 
right.     If  I've  got  to  be  in  the  head-lines  I've  got  to  be." 

"It's  not  only  that,"  said  Perry,  in  miserable  confusion 
before  such  a  nice  young  girl  in  such  a  woeful  tangle, "  but» 
you  see — I  hardly  know  how  to  explain  it — but,  you  see, 
I'm  a  married  man." 

"As  if  I  didn't  know  it!  Don't  I  know  your  wife? 
She's  charming,"  said  Muriel. 

Perry  cleared  his  throat  uncomfortably.  "Yes,  thanks. 
But  it  seems  that — ^it  seems  that — er — ^married  men  must 
not  rescue  nice  young  girls.  That  privilege  belongs  to 
nice  young  bachelors." 

Mtuiel  could  have  limited  this  further  to  nice  yoimg 
doctors,  and  her  heart  was  fuU  of  wild  sighs  of,  "Oh,  why 
couldn't  it  have  been  Dr.  Worthing!"  Still  she  must  not 
begrudge  Mr.  Merithew  his  glory. 

"I  don't  see  why  anybody  should  object  to  your  rescu- 
ing me?"  she  said.  "I  met  you  in  my  father's  oflfice. 
You  were  most  kind  about  giving  me  that  money.  Yoiu* 
motives  have  all  been  as  noble  as  can  be." 

"I'm  afraid  that  the  reporters  and  the  gossips  are  not 
in  the  habit  of  imputing  noble  motives  to  me,"  Perry 
sighed,  and  felt  in  his  flippant  heart  something  of  the  vast 
regret  of  a  fallen  woman  for  lost  innocence,  and  the  yet 
keener  regret  for  lost  reputation.     While  he  smiled  bit- 

333 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

terly  at  catching  himself  in  an  ingenuous  mood,  Muriel 
was  asking: 

"But  how  on  earth  did  you  happen  to  be  here?  How 
did  you  know  they  would  be  taking  me  along  this  awful 
road?" 

"That's  another  complication,"  said  Perry,  thinking  of 
the  cabaret,  the  betrayed  and  neglected  Maryla,  and  of 
the  dance  with  the  gunman's  wife.  These  things  were 
hard  to  explain  agreeably. 

"Anyway,  it's  wonderful  of  you!"  said  Muriel.  "I 
should  think  you  would  want  everybody  in  the  world  to 
know  of  your  heroism.  I'm  sure  if  I  saved  anybody  I'd 
advertise  it  myself  if  I  couldn't  get  it  published  any  other 
way." 

"Thanks.  That's  very  nice  of  you.  But,  you  see,  my 
being  a  married  man  and  all — and  the  young  woman  who 
told  me  being  married  to  one  of  the  gunmen — and  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  not  to  have  been  at  the  cabaret — it  would 
make  it  very  awkward  for  everybody.  People  would 
wonder  about  you — ^how  it  should  be  me,  of  all  men,  who 
should  know  you  were  kidnapped  and  where  you  were  and 
all  that.     You  see,  it's  really  pretty  well  mussed  up." 

"I  see,"  Miiriel  murmured. 

Perry  went  on:  "It  wouldn't  be  very  nice  for  you,  or 
Mrs.  Merithew,  or  for  me.  Of  course,  I  don't  matter.  I 
haven't  any  reputation  to  lose.  But  that's  what  makes 
me  the  very  worst  person  to  be  mixed  up  in  it.  I  ought 
to  have  sent  somebody  else,  but  the  time  was  so  short 
and  I  was  rattled  and —    You  understand,  don't  you?" 

Muriel  understood  darkly.  She  was  as  good  as  a  girl 
could  be;  but  she  was  neither  blind  nor  deaf,  and  young 
girls  know  more  than  they  are  politely  supposed  to  know, 
and  they  overhear  more  gossip  than  they  are  expected  to 
imderstand.  She  knew  well  what  a  menace  gossip  is  and 
how  like  a  creeping  acid  it  discolors  and  gnaws  at  whatever 
it  reaches. 

She  remembered  her  father's  dislike  for  Perry  Merithew, 

334 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

and  the  general  tone  people  took  when  they  spoke  of  him. 
She  understood  that  there  must  be  guilt  back  of  his  con- 
fusion, and  she  tried  to  imagine  the  sort  of  guilt  it  was. 
She  imagined  it  wrong,  of  course. 

In  fact,  she  assiimed  that  the  gunman's  wife  was 
Perry's  sweetheart.  She  remembered  "Red  Ida's"  part 
in  her  own  capture,  and  she  asked  suddenly,  with  startling 
irrelevance  in  Perry's  mind: 

"Was  the — the  woman  who  told  you  about  me  a  little 
skinny,  tough  Bowery  mucker  with  red  hair  and  awful 
clothes?" 

To  Muriel's  world  the  much-reformed  and  highly  re- 
spectable Bowery  was  still  a  name  for  everything  slum- 
mish. 

Perry  gasped:   "Yes,  she  was.     Why?" 

"Ugh!"  said  Muriel,  with  a  shudder  of  disgust  for  her 
rescuer.  So  that  was  the  sort  of  woman  this  Mr.  Merithew 
went  to  cabarets  with !    That  was  the  sort  of  man  he  was ! 

She  retreated  from  him  in  a  nausea  of  repugnance. 
She  had  danced  with  him,  and  he  had  danced  with  Red 
Ida !  She  did  not  understand  the  immemorial  democracy 
of  vice  that  has  made  the  Sultans  bow  to  the  female  slaves 
from  the  market-place  or  from  the  kitchen ;  sent  many  a 
King  Cophetua  to  the  dusty  feet  of  many  a  beggar-maid, 
and  brought  countless  coronets  and  top-hats  to  grass  or 
carpet  before  little  bare  feet,  little  brogans,  and  little 
dancing-slippers.    Snobbery  ends  at  the  boundaries  of  sex. 

But  Muriel  had  this  to  learn  and  grow  used  to.  It  is 
one  of  the  bitterest  lessons  that  women  meet  in  life. 
Perry  Merithew  was  the  first  example  that  confronted 
her,  and  she  loathed  him — temporarily.  She  blamed  him 
for  daring  to  know  her;  she  blamed  him  for  daring  to  lend 
her  money  to  do  charity  with.  All  he  was  good  for  now 
was  to  complete  her  rescue  and  vanish.  What  an  abomi- 
nable fate  it  was  that  she  had  to  be  rescued  by  him!  She 
was  instantly  as  determined  to  thwart  the  reporters  as 
Perry  was.    Suddenly  the  resolution  came  to  her: 

335 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

" There's  just  one  thing  to  do,"  she  said,  grimly.  " Turn 
the  gunmen  loose." 

"Let  them  go?"  Perry  gasped. 

"Certainly.  They're  not  of  the  slightest  use  to  me. 
And  Heaven  knows  I've  had  enough  of  their  society.  I'm 
sick  of  the  sight  of  them.     And  I'm  really  horribly  sleepy." 

Perry  glanced  at  the  tableau  in  the  brilliant  glow  of  the 
four  headHghts. 

The  chauffeur,  Groden,  in  deep  silhouette  rimmed  with 
light,  covered  the  three  gangsters  with  two  revolvers. 
They  stood  with  arms  up  like  jumping-jacks.  The  de- 
tective, Lumm,  was  "frisking"  them  scientifically,  with 
deft  prods,  probes,  and  slaps.  He  had  already  built  up 
in  the  road  a  little  pyramid  of  weapons;  five  revolvers, 
two  knuckle-dusters,  two  sandbags,  three  ugly  clasp-knives, 
a  slungshot,  and  some  boxes  of  cartridges. 

The  look  on  the  gunmen's  faces  was  the  more  desperate 
for  being  bafiled.  Hatred  made  fiends  of  them.  Perry 
mumbled: 

"  It  seems  hardly  right  to  turn  them  loose  again;  they're 
like  mad  dogs.  Besides,  I'm  afraid  that  if  I  let  them  go 
I  might  be  committing  some  crime  or  other.  It  might 
let  me  in  for  a  sentence  to  jail  or  the  penitentiary,  or  some- 
thing." 

"That  would  hardly  do,  either,"  Muriel  yawned. 

Perry  shook  his  head  in  amused  adoration.  He  did  not 
believe  in  logic,  arithmetic,  consistency,  gratitude,  or 
breeches  for  women.  He  was  used  to  being  used.  It 
rather  endeared  Muriel  to  him  to  find  her  the  spoiled  child. 
But  he  sighed  one  of  his  most  effective  sighs. 

"We  might  ask  Lumm,"  he  said.  "He's  a  detective." 
He  raised  his  voice  and  called  him  "Oh,  Mr.  Lumm, 
would  you  mind  coming  here  a  moment?" 

"Sure!"  said  Lumm.  He  cautioned  Groden:  "Keep 
*em  covered,  and  if  any  one  of  'em  so  much  as  wiggles 
his  little  finger  shoot  'em  all  down." 

This  pretty  thought  seemed  to  terrify  Groden  more 

336 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

than  the  three  musketeers.  Groden's  native  weapon  was 
an  automobile,  not  artillery.  While  he  stood  imagining 
himself  piling  up  the  dead  in  front  of  him,  Lumm  joined 
Merithew  in  the  twilight  by  the  limousine. 

Perry  explained  the  situation  to  him  and  the  desired 
escape  from  the  newspapers.  Lumm  was  puzzled.  He 
dealt  largely  in  the  suppression  of  notoriety,  and  he  sympa- 
thized. Still,  he  was  not  inspired,  and  he  rubbed  his  large 
chin  hard  without  result.  In  the  midst  of  his  perplexity 
Achilles,  who  had  taken  Groden's  meastire,  whispered  his 
fellows : 

"I'm  gona  take  a  chanst  wit'  dat  guy." 

He  made  a  sudden  leap  forward  at  Groden.  Groden 
was  afraid  to  shoot.  He  fell  back  in  disorder,  tripped  on 
his  own  feet,  and  sat  down  hard.  Achilles  bent  to  snatch 
a  weapon  from  the  heap  on  the  ground.  Lumm,  who  had 
been  watching  with  one  eye,  sent  a  shot  between  his  very 
hands. 

Achilles  turned  a  sort  of  cart-wheel  backward  and  was  in- 
stantly lost  in  the  dark,  for  the  two  automobiles  confront- 
ing each  other  with  blazing  headlights  formed  a  crater  of 
blinding  radiance  that  made  the  enveloping  gloom  im- 
penetrable to  the  eye.  The  moon  was  struggling  behind 
a  mob  of  clouds. 

Pep  Chu  and  Blip  followed  Achilles'  example  and 
whisked  out  of  sight  with  uncanny  abruptness. 

Lumm  started  forward  in  pursuit ;  but  Perry  seized  his 
arm.     "Let  'em  go." 

"What!"  Limun  snarled  in  a  rage  of  disgust.  "Leave 
'em  put  a  thing  like  that  over  on  me?" 

But  Perry  clung  to  his  sleeve.  "You  do  what  I  tell 
you  to  do.     They've  solved  the  problem  for  us." 

Limim  remembered  that  he  was  not  a  poHceman.  He 
did  not  love  the  police,  nor  they  him.  He  understood. 
He  grinned.     "I'm  next,"  he  said.     "I  get  you." 

Perry  and  Limun  were  laughing  at  Groden's  efforts  to 
explain  how  he  woiild  'a'  let  'em  have  it  on'y  for  shppdn*, 

337 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

when  there  came  from  the  dark  shore-land  of  Spuyten 
Duyvil  Creek  a  sound  of  splashing,  floundering,  and  cries 
for  help.     Achilles  had  run  into  the  water. 

"Go  save  him!"  Muriel  cried.     "He'll  drown." 

"No  such  luck.  Miss,"  said  Limim. 

There  was  a  silence  that  might  mean  anything. 

Muriel  felt  a  new  dread,  a  kind  of  guilt,  a  great  fear, 
an  instinct  of  flight. 

"Let's  get  away — quick!" 

"That's  best,"  said  Perry.     "Climb  into  my  car." 

Lumm  and  Groden  started  to  gather  up  the  arsenal  in 
the  road. 

"  Throw  those  things  into  the  water,"  said  Perry.  They 
flung  them  into  the  dark,  and  some  splashed  and  soma 
thudded. 

Perry  helped  Muriel  into  his  limousine.  Lumm 
climbed  to  the  front  seat  with  Groden.  The  car  moved 
forward  slowly  past  the  other  limousine  with  its  staring 
headlights. 

Groden  paused  to  ask,  "What  becomes  of  that  car, 
sir?" 

"It's  none  of  ours,"  said  Perry.  "Somebody  will  find 
it.     Go  on." 

"Wait,  wait!"  Muriel  cried.  "The  money!  It  may 
be  in  there." 

Groden  ran  back,  fumbled  about  in  the  deserted  limou- 
sine, found  the  handbag  on  the  floor,  and  returned  with  it. 

Shang  and  Pep  had  remembered  to  transfer  it  from  the 
taxicab  to  the  limousine,  but  had  forgotten  it  in  the  terror 
of  their  abrupt  arrest.  Shang  Ganley,  the  first  to  escape, 
was  the  first  to  remember  it  as  he  fled  penniless  in  the 
dark.  Among  all  his  regrets  this  would  hurt  him  the 
longest. 

Muriel  opened  the  handbag.  There  lay  the  three 
thousand-dollar  bills.  She  clutched  them  out  with  joy 
and  thrust  them  into  Merithew's  palm. 

338 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Take  theaai,"  she  said. 

"Me?    Why?    What  is  it?" 

"It's  th<i money  you  gave  me  to  rescue  the  Italian  boy 
with.     He  cost  only  two  thousand.     There's  your  change." 

"But — er — is  he  rescued?" 

"I  don't  know.     I  hope  so.     But  I've  done  all  I  can." 

"This  money,  though — really — it  embarrasses  me." 

"Not  half  as  much  as  it  does  me." 

He  offered  it  back,  but  she  pushed  it  aside.  She  felt 
that  somehow  she  was  absolving  herself  from  her  obliga- 
tions to  this  awful  person. 

Perry  felt  the  lack  of  cordiality,  the  vague  displacency 
of  her  manner,  and  it  hurt  him  sharply.  He  wanted  her 
good  favor  increasingly  as  it  proved  elusive. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.     "Any  time  you  want  it  again — " 

"I'll  never  want  it  again!  I've  finished  with  slum 
work  and — "  She  could  hardly  say  "and  you."  She 
hardly  dared  to  think  it,  it  was  so  hideously  ungrateful. 
Gratitude  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  of  emotions. 

Perry  sighed  again,  and  put  the  money  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket  as  if  it  were  dross.  Yet,  after  all,  three  thousand 
dollars  was  three  thousand  dollars.  It  rendered  him  in- 
dulgent. He  would  save  the  insolent  little  wretch  in 
spite  of  herself,  finish  his  rescue,  and  have  done  with 
her. 

"Groden,"  he  called,  "don't  go  back  the  way  we  came. 
We  may  be  asked  questions.  Isn't  there  some  other  way 
round  about?" 

Groden  nodded.  He  knew  his  Greater  New  York,  and 
held  north  to  Van  Cortlandt  Park  South,  and  then  ran 
southerly  along  the  broad  ribbon  of  Mosholu  Parkway, 
along  the  rim  of  Bronx  Park  into  the  Southern  Boulevard, 
into  the  Boston  Road  and  the  upper  twists  of  Third 
Avenue  and  across  its  Harlem  River  bridgeway;  re- 
entering Manhattan  five  miles  from  the  point  of  exit. 
Muriel  hardly  spoke  dtuing  the  long  journey.  She  was 
heartily  ashamed  of  herself,  but  she  could  not  forgive  fate 

339 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

for  landing  her  at  Perry  Merithew's  mercy,  when  Dr. 
Worthing  would  have  been,  and  tried  to  be,  and  ought 
to  have  been,  her  rescuer. 

Perry  was  surprised  that  he  did  not,  could  not,  feel 
more  indignant  at  Muriel's  parsimony  of  appreciation. 
He  tried  to  call  her  a  worthless,  ungrateful  monster,  but  he 
could  not  feel  angry  at  her.  He  felt  angry  at  himself. 
He  strove  to  find  felicitous  expressions,  but  he  was  as 
witless  as  a  yokel. 

And  suddenly  he  recalled  what  different  company  this 
limousine,  this  little  rolling  cabinet  particulier  had  housed. 
Aphra  Shaler  was  not  the  first  to  loll  there  in  his  arm. 
Maryla  had  found  it  a  spider's  parlor.  Pet  Bettany  had 
invaded  it  and  demanded  blackmail.  Red  Ida  had 
leaned  in  at  the  window.  And  now  Muriel  Schuyler  was 
there ! 

She  was  so  different  from  the  others;  she  did  not  be- 
long at  all.  The  other  women  crowded  mistily  into  the 
narrow  room  like  the  ghosts  of  old  sweethearts  in  the  trite 
illustrations.  They  ridiculed  Perry  Merithew  in  the  rdle 
of  squire  to  a  really  nice  girl  like  Muriel. 

Here  was  astounding  opportunity  beyond  the  manage- 
ment of  his  dreams.  He  had  desired  her,  and  had  not 
known  how  to  get  near  her;  and  now  he  had  saved  her 
and  she  was  in  his  stateroom !  And  he  could  not  find  a 
single  wile  to  employ ! 

He  felt  untimely  rather  than  unworthy.  He  regretted 
those  sneering  pretty  ghosts  that  rode  with  him,  but  it 
was  not  the  remorse  of  repentance.  It  was  the  more 
usual  anger  that  we  feel  when  our  past  turns  out  a  bad 
investment. 

What  antipathy  is  more  annoying  than  that  between 
people  who  cannot  be  enthusiastic  for  the  simple  reason 
that  they  ought  to  be?  Muriel  and  Perry  rode  for  miles 
in  silence,  wasting  the  night  and  the  solitude  that  would 
have  been  precious  to  how  many  separated  lovers. 

340 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

They  spun  through  the  sleeping  streets  of  the  upper 
town  till  they  approached  the  comer  where  the  big  Schuy- 
ler mansion  lifted  its  imperial  fagade  to  the  obsequious 
moon.  Then  the  detective,  Limim,  leaned  back  and  mo- 
tioned to  Perry,  who  opened  the  door  a  little  and  leaned 
forward  at  the  crevice  to  hear  Lumm's  murmur: 

"There's  a  bunch  of  min  standin'  around  the  enterance 
to  Miss  Schuyler's  home,  sir." 

"Reporters!"  Perry  groaned.  "Go  on  by!"  He 
turned  to  Muriel.     "The  death-watch  is  waiting  for  you." 

She  was  tired  and  peevish,  and  she  snapped,  "Oh, 
dear!"  with  more  disgust  than  the  phrase  implied.  But 
she  did  not  object. 

"Where  to  now,  sir?"  Lumm  asked,  later, 

"God  knows,"  said  Perry.  He  turned  to  Muriel. 
"You  could  hardly  go  to  my  house,  cotild  you?" 

Even  Muriel  was  sophivSticated  enough  now  to  answer, 
"Hardly!" 

"Or  to  a  hotel?" 

"At  this  hour?" 

She  was  always  childishly  resentful  when  she  was  sleepy. 
And  now  she  was  alone  in  New  York — homeless.  Perry 
had  her  on  his  hands  indeed.  He  had  fought  to  gain  her, 
and  now  he  could  not  be  rid  of  her.  His  thoughts  were 
blasphemous  till  Muriel  exclaimed: 

"There's  my  Aunt  Cornelia — Mrs.  Neff — if  the  house 
isn't  closed  up." 

Perry  knew  Mrs.  Neff.  He  seized  the  speaking-tube 
eagerly  and  directed  Groden  where  to  go. 

The  house  was  dark,  ugly,  forbidding.  But  Perry  got 
down  and  rang  the  bell  insistently,  till  at  length  a  light 
was  made  up-stairs. 

"Thank  Heaven,  Aunt  Cornelia  is  home,"  Muriel 
sighed,  and  hurried  from  the  limousine  to  the  door. 

But  the  caretaker  appeared  in  a  singularly  matter-of- 
fact  nightgown  and  protrusive  bare  feet.  Behind  him  his 
fat  wife  looked  like  a  startled  bolster.     They  had  supposed 

341 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

that  the  police  had  rung  the  bell  to  notify  them  that  the 
house  was  on  fire  or  full  of  burglars. 

They  were  hardly  reUeved  to  find  Perry  Merithew  and 
Miiriel  Schuyler  interceding  for  hospitality  like  wanderers 
in  a  one-house  wilderness. 

Muriel  explained  her  plight  with  her  most  powdered- 
sugar  graciousness,  and  they  dared  not  turn  her  away, 
especially  as  they  were  in  a  chagrin  of  guilt:  they  were 
supposed  to  be  sleeping  in  the  basement,  but,  secure  in 
the  knowledge  of  Mrs.  Neff's  absence  in  Europe,  they 
occupied  her  room  and  slept  in  her  canopied  four-poster 
as  snugly  as  Christopher  Sly,  the  tinker  in  the  Induction. 

Muriel  remembered  the  light  in  the  room  she  knew  ti> 
be  her  aunt's.     She  was  not  quite  too  sleepy  to  be  in 
spired.     She  smiled,  tauntingly: 

'Til  trade  secrets  with  you,  Mrs. — Mrs. — " 

"Mrs.  Ranch." 

"Oh  yes,  Mrs.  Ranch.  Now,  Mrs.  Ranch,  if  you  will 
promise  not  to  tell  Mrs.  Neff  I  spent  the  night  here,  I'll 
promise  not  to  tell  her  that  you  and  your  husband  use 
her  room." 

"  Um  Gotteswillen!"  gasped  Mrs.  Ranch. 

Muriel  went  on.  "And  I  won't  mention  the  bottles 
of  beer  there  on  the  console  in  the  hall,  if  you  promise." 

Mrs.  Ranch  promised  hastily,  fervently. 

Perry  Merithew,  lagging  superfluous  on  the  door-step, 
turned  away,  smirking  at  the  galling  irony  of  his  situa- 
tion. Muriel  whistled  him  back  with  soft  "Sst!"  as  if 
she  were  afraid  to  waken  the  street.     She  whispered: 

"Hadn't  somebody  better  be  told  not  to  look  for  me 
any  further?" 

"Good  idea!     I'll  see  to  it." 

"And  Doctor — Doctor — ^the  people  who  were  pursuing 
us  ought  to  be  told." 

"The  police  will  send  out  word." 

"Oh,  that's  nice!  Well,  good  night!  And  thank  you 
ever  so  much  again — oh,  ever  so  much!" 

342 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

A  competent  reward,  that!  For  that  he  had  gone 
jousting  through  the  city,  risking  his  life  gunning  for 
gunmen.  He  thought  of  Pet  Bettany's  suspicions  and 
accusations,  and  her  cynical  belief  that  his  relations  with 
Muriel  Schuyler  were  intimate. 

He  realized  again  that  cynics  guess  wrong  as  often  as 
illusionists;  he  had  known  of  so  much  evil  enjoyed  under 
the  shield  of  innocence,  and  so  much  sturdy  innocence 
flourishing  in  the  face  of  evil  appearance  and  opportunity. 

Perry  mused  on  life  and  yawned  in  its  face,  then  he 
was  startled  awake  by  a  remembrance  of  the  latest  errand 
Miss  Schuyler  had  given  him — she  was  making  a  positive 
chore-boy  of  him,  and  in  the  words  of  the  bell-boy's  song, 
"All  I  get  is.  Much  obliged  to  you." 

His  car  was  passing  a  drug-store  whose  prescription 
clerk  was  just  putting  out  his  lights  for  the  night,  as 
drowsily  as  if  he  had  taken  his  own  drugs.  Merithew 
signaled  Groden  to  stop,  ran  into  the  store,  found  a  pay- 
as-you-enter  telephone  in  a  booth,  dropped  a  nickel  in 
the  slot,  and  called  for  "3100  Spring." 

A  policemanly  voice  growled:  "Headquarters.  What 
is  it?" 

Merithew  asked,  "Have  you  found  Miss  Schuyler  yet?" 

"Miss  who?  Oh  yes — er — not  exactly — not  quite — 
but  we're —    We'll  have  her  any  minute  now." 

"Well,  she's  been  found.  The  gang  got  scared — left 
her  in  a  stolen  limousine  up  Spuyten  Duy vil  way  and  ran 
off.  She  managed  to  get  to  the  nearest  house  and — and 
now  she's  safe." 

"The  hellyousay!    Where  is  she  now?" 

"That's  my  affair." 

"Say,  who  are  you,  anyway?" 

"Little  Nemo.     Good  night.     Better  luck  next  time." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  left  the  booth,  chuckling. 
The  yawning  druggist  locked  the  door  after  him,  and 
walked  away. 

343 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

By  the  time  the  police  traced  the  number  there  was 
no  one  to  answer  the  inspector's  fierce  call. 

Perry  went  to  his  home,  a  little  consoled  by  the  ex- 
quisite privilege  of  teasing  the  police.  Also  his  conscience 
rejoiced.  He  had  done  a  virtuous  act,  seized  an  oppor- 
timity  that  vice  had  placed  in  his  way.  It  was  a  paradox 
for  his  conscience.  If  he  had  not  taken  Maryla  from  her 
shop,  if  he  had  not  danced  with  Red  Ida,  he  could  not 
have  rescued  Muriel.  And  nobody  knew  except  those 
of  whose  silence  he  was  secure. 

He  forgot  Pet  Bettany. 


CHAPTER  XL 

IF  Muriel  complained  that  life  was  inartistic  and  badly- 
constructed  since  it  did  not  permit  Dr.  Worthing  to 
rescue  her,  what  were  Dr.  Worthing's  thoughts?  He 
had  begtm  the  hunt  for  her,  battled  for  her,  risked  his 
life  for  her,  only  to  have  his  taxi-charger  expire  under 
him.  He  was  taken  up  as  a  mere  passenger  in  Winnie 
NicoUs's  racer,  and  learned  that  he  had  a  plutocrat  for 
a  rival.  At  last,  they  coiild  only  overtake  the  gangsters' 
taxi  when  it  was  burned  out  and  abandoned. 

While  they  stood  nonplussed  by  the  apparent  evapo- 
ration of  its  passengers,  the  owner  of  the  limousine  came 
forth  and  began  to  emit  yelps  of  rage  at  the  loss  of  his 
car  and  his  chauffeur.  Being  only  the  owner,  he  could 
not,  of  course,  remember  the  license  number. 

Nicolls  whirled  his  big  racer  about  and  took  up  the 
vain  ptirsuit;  for  a  pursuit  can  hardly  succeed  when  one 
does  not  know  what  he  is  pursiiing  nor  which  way  it 
has  gone.  He  darted  frantically  up  this  street,  and  down 
that,  like  a  greyhound  that  has  lost  the  scent.  Eventually 
Roundsman  Grebe  telephoned  to  headquarters  and  learned 
what  Merithew  had  telephoned — that  Muriel  had  been 
left  in  the  empty  limousine.  They  ran  up  to  Spuyten 
Duyvil  and  verified  the  limousine.  There  was  the  least 
possible  satisfaction  in  that.  The  only  comfort  was  that 
they  made  mutual  company  in  their  misery,  the  police- 
man, the  millionaire,  and  the  surgeon. 

Red  Ida  had  known  her  man  well  enough  to  know  that 
he  would  suspect  her  first  of  all.  Her  fear  of  the  police 
and  her  sorrow  for  Muriel,  perhaps  her  jealousy  of  her, 

345 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

had  swept  her  to  the  terrific  deed  of  telling  Perry  Merithew 
what  she  knew. 

She  had  known  nothing  of  the  situation  at  home,  and 
wondered  what  she  might  find  there.  In  Allen  Street  she 
learned  from  excited  crowds  that  a  sensational  taxicab 
battle  had  begun  outside  her  tenement  and  rolled  north. 
The  sensation  lost  nothing  in  repetition. 

Whether  Shang  came  off  \'ictor  or  victim  she  could 
not  know.  But  she  knew  that  she  was  done  for  as  his 
wife.  She  ran  into  her  fiat  and  began  to  hurl  into  the 
suit-case  all  her  properties,  pitifully  few  and  tawdry. 

She  dreaded  every  moment  to  hear  Shang  come  in. 
Her  last  glance  about  the  room  reminded  her  of  his  stock 
of  drugs.  Those  were  his  ammunition.  Without  them 
his  pursuit  and  his  brain  would  be  hampered.  She 
emptied  all  the  powders  into  the  sink  and  washed  them 
away.  And  what  an  exorcism  of  what  countless  demons 
that  was!  Then  she  hobbled  along  the  streets,  lugging 
her  baggage  till  she  reached  a  station  of  the  Tube.  A 
train  carried  her  under  the  river  into  New  Jersey. 

Now  she  had  leisure  to  ponder  on  her  estate. 

She  had  not  paused  to  collect  her  wages  of  song  at  the 
cabaret.  She  had  little  in  her  piu"se  and  little  to  pauTi. 
She  remembered  with  sorrow  her  husband's  promise  that 
as  soon  as  he  had  collected  the  ransom  for  Muriel  Schuyler 
he  would  string  her  with  diamonds  till  she  looked  like 
Luna  Park  at  night. 

She  had  cut  herself  out  of  that.  She  had  broken  up 
her  home,  thwarted  her  husband's  loftiest  ambition  and 
put  him  in  jeopardy — and  for  what?  In  order  to  save  a 
multi-billionaire  from  having  to  spend  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars,  which  he  would  miss  about  as  much  as  his  finger- 
nail parings! 

Ida  began  to  reproach  herself  for  cowardice,  infidelity, 
treachery,  and  imbeciHty.  She  called  her  soul  before  her 
soul  and  condemned  it  with  the  most  scathing  terms  in 
her  vocabiilary. 

346 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"You  big  boob,  you!  You  poor  simp!  you  mutt!  you 
snitch!  you  damn  piker!    O  Gawd,  what  a  boob  I  been!" 

About  this  time  the  swift-footed  Achilles,  plastered  with 
mud  from  his  tumble  into  Spuyten  Du5r^il  Creek,  was  still 
running  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him.  Little  Big  Blip 
and  Pep  Chu  were  speeding  north  of  Yonkers  on  a  War- 
burton  Avenue  street-car. 

But  Shang  Ganley  had  changed  his  course  and  ttimed 
back  to  town.  He  was  lost  in  the  wilderness  where  he 
was.  His  drug  supply  needed  replenishing.  And  he 
wanted  a  word  or  two  with  his  wife. 

His  instinct  and  his  suspicion  told  him  that  Ida  had 
betrayed  him.  After  cautious  reconnaissance  he  ran 
down  into  a  lonely  Subway  station  and  was  carried  along 
that  huge  rat-hole  imder  the  city  walls,  down  to  his  own 
nest. 

He  had  hardly  the  car-fare  to  take  him  home  to  his  gory 
settlement  with  her.  He  entered  the  flat  with  a  heart  on 
fire,  and  his  opening  words  all  ready. 

The  disarray  of  the  room  was  evidence  not  only  of 
flight,  but  of  guilt.  Shang  fell  into  a  spasm  of  rage.  He 
cursed  her  with  black  venom.  He  threatened  her  with 
every  form  of  destruction.  He  hated  her  with  aU  his 
might.  He  cotild  not  hate  her  enough  to  suit  him.  He 
was  too  weak.     His  ring  was  empty. 

He  kicked  aside  a  rug  and  lifted  a  plank  in  the  floor, 
disclosing  the  little  warehouse  where  he  had  kept  the 
stock  of  drugs  he  had  begun  to  sell,  and  ended  by  con- 
suming. Never  had  he  needed  his  stimulant  so  much  as 
now.  He  must  think  of  many  things  and  outwit  the  witty 
officers  of  the  witless  law. 

He  thrust  his  shivering  hand  into  the  space  between 
the  joists.  His  eyes  started.  He  bent  down  and  stared 
into  the  dark.  He  lighted  a  match  and  held  it  till  it 
burnt  itself  out  at  his  heedless  finger-tip.  Then  he  fell 
flat  and  screeched.  He  sniveled,  puled,  bellowed,  chew- 
ing his  tears  and  jolting  out  curses  and  prayers  for  revenge. 

347 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

She  had  confiscated  all  of  his  powder,  every  last  "deck" 
of  it !  It  was  late,  and  it  was  farther  to  the  nearest  ilUcit 
drug-store  than  he  had  strength  to  go. 

If  there  were  lower  depths  of  degradation  to  plumb, 
he  could  not  imagine  them :  frustrated  in  his  crime ;  robbed, 
betrayed,  and  abandoned  by  his  wife;  bereft  of  his  vice; 
sick,  penniless,  despised ;  wanted  by  nobody  on  earth  but 
the  police. 

After  he  had  wept  himself  limp  he  climbed  to  his  feet 
with  the  aid  of  a  chair  and  staggered  down  the  steps  into 
the  stupid,  dirty  daybreak  of  Allen  Street. 

He  met  a  policeman  who  had  just  come  for  him.  A 
general  round-up  had  been  ordered  by  the  Deputy  Com- 
missioner. Achilles  had  been  recognized  by  the  police- 
man whose  wrist  he  broke.  The  ownership  of  the  taxicab 
had  been  instantly  traced  by  its  number.  All  acquaint- 
ances of  Achilles  and  Blip  were  in  demand  at  head- 
quarters. 

Shang  was  so  dejected  that  it  seemed  good  to  have 
even  a  policeman  to  lean  on.  He  was  so  frantic  that  he 
actually  begged  the  officer  for  a  little  "happy  dust,"  and 
got  instead  a  push  in  the  face  that  flung  him  against  one 
of  the  latticed  pillars  of  the  Elevated  Road.  He  clung 
there  whimpering  till  he  was  peeled  loose  and  half  lugged, 
half  carried  to  the  station.  By  that  time  he  was  in  such 
desperate  plight  of  craving,  and  shrieking  so  fearfully, 
that  the  police  surgeon  had  to  provide  for  him  before  he 
could  make  the  necessary  answers  for  the  record  on  the 
blotter.  He  was  charged  with  nearly  everything,  from 
overspeeding  plus  resistance  to  arrest,  to  mayhem,  abduc- 
tion, and  assault  with  intent  to  kill  When  he  was  asked 
where  his  wife  was,  he  said  he  did  not  know,  and  expressed 
such  a  violent  craving  to  get  her  by  the  throat  that  they 
believed  him. 

Then  he  was  escorted  through  the  door  and  down  a  cor- 
ridor in  a  human  zoo,  to  a  tiny  room  with  a  railing  in 
front  of  it. 

348 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

The  city  was  a  dormitory  now,  sound  asleep  save  for 
a  few  corridors  where  night  industries  thrived.  It  was 
the  pre-natal  darkest  hoiir,  the  silentest  hour  before  the 
alarm-clocks  of  the  humble  begin  their  odious  cock-a- 
doodle-doo. 

Sleep  and  idleness  were  almost  everjrwhere.  In  the 
newspaper-offices  the  huge  spools  of  white  paper  had  been 
swept  through  the  presses  and  had  emerged  in  folded 
journals  carrying  in  the  largest  type  the  news  that  Muriel 
Schuyler  was  missing  and  in  the  power  of  a  desperate 
gang.  The  telegraph-wires  had  spread  the  same  story 
across  the  continent  and  beneath  the  seas  while  Muriel 
slept  under  an  alien  roof,  slept  like  a  boy  that  had  played 
too  hard  and  too  long.  Pet  Bettany  had  cried  and  sworn 
herself  to  sleep  and  was  dreaming  herself  a  Nereid.  Perry 
Merithew  snoozed  in  his  own  bed.  Red  Ida  tossed  on  a 
cot  on  foreign  soil. 

The  only  way  to  make  a  satisfactory  code  of  practical 
morals  is  to  draw  up  an  ideal  set  of  rules,  of  "shalls"  and 
"shall  nots,"  then  to  ignore  their  interferences,  contra- 
dictions, and  dilemmas,  to  deny  all  facts  that  disprove  and 
exaggerate  all  facts  that  confirm,  and  to  imagine  rewards 
and  remorses  that  do  not  arrive;  in  short,  to  refuse  to 
permit  reason  to  temper  with  faith. 

For  those  who  can  content  themselves  with  such  ready- 
made  mental  clothes  and  feed  on  such  tabloid  spiritual 
food  there  may  be  contentment.  But  to  those  who  recog- 
nize the  swirl  of  impulse,  the  infinitely  intricate  involutions 
of  duty  and  responsibility,  of  privilege  and  power,  morals 
become,  like  the  sciences,  an  endless  source  of  fascinating 
mysteries  that  increase  in  number  and  wonder  the  further 
they  are  studied.  Only  the  ignorant,  the  incurious,  or  the 
bigoted  can  feel  positive  and  secure. 

Here  was  a  drastic  instance  of  it :  two  highly  immoral 
people,  a  man  of  luxury  and  a  woman  of  squalor,  had 
collaborated  in  the  rescue  of  an  innocent  girl.  They 
'  349 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

should  have  been  greeted  with  angelic  music,  flowers,  and 
strange  exultation.  Already  they  were  ashamed  of  their 
good  deeds,  rewarded  with  disapproval,  and  tangled  in 
problems  that  were  to  grow  steadily  knottier,  until  Perry 
Merithew  should  be  found  dead  in  the  slimis  and  Red 
Ida  pursued  and  arrested  for  his  murder. 

Worthing  was  so  exhausted  by  the  bad  night  he  had 
made  of  it,  that  he  had  to  smoke  a  lone  cigar  before  he 
dared  attempt  sleep.  A  dull  fury  of  resentment  at  his 
luck  and  jealousy  against  the  anonymous  rescuer  of  his 
idol  tortured  him  with  remorse  as  for  a  crime,  the  crime 
of  missing  a  climax. 

He  had  lost  Muriel,  and  probably  his  job  at  Bellevue 
as  well.  His  poor  consolation  was  that  it  was  not  much 
of  a  job.  As  he  was  sinking  into  a  sleep  of  exhaustion 
he  remembered  that  he  had  arranged  to  be  present  at 
the  operation  on  Happy  Hanigan.  Dr.  Eccleston  had 
granted  him  the  privilege.  He  remembered  also  that 
Muriel  had  promised  to  be  present,  too,  and  hold  the 
boy's  hand  when  he  went  under  the  anesthetic.  Of 
course  she  woiild  not  be  there,  after  such  an  adventure, 
especially  as  she  never  kept  engagements. 

He  turned  his  light  out  and  himself  in  just  as  the 
dawn  began  unrolling  its  crimson  ribbons  beyond  the 
eastern  roofs. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

THE  morning  papers  had  already  gone  to  press  when 
Perry  Merithew  informed  the  police  that  Muriel 
Schuyler  was  safe.  Every  paper  advertised  her  on  the 
front  page  as  a  vanished  heiress,  kidnapped  by  street- 
bucaneers  plying  imder  the  piratical  little  flag  on  the 
clock  of  a  taxicab. 

The  early,  or  "bulldog,"  editions  for  distant  points  sim- 
ply described  with  infinite  inaccuracy  and  contradiction 
the  flight  through  the  streets.  The  final  editions  described 
the  discovery  of  the  bumt-out  derelict  taxicab  and  the 
further  disappearance  of  Muriel. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  morning  Jacob  Schuyler's  yacht 
reached  New  York.  On  the  way  to  the  up-town  landing- 
place  it  paused  long  enough  in  the  Bay  to  send  ashore 
for  the  newspapers. 

When  they  came  aboard  Jacob  Schuyler  and  his  wife 
were  eating  a  poor  folks'  breakfast  of  oatmeal  and  eggs 
in  the  simiptuous  dining-saloon  of  their  sea-going  chateau. 
Jacob  glanced  at  the  front  page,  as  usual,  before  turning 
to  the  financial  colimms  inside.  He  was  about  to  move 
his  eyes  on  when  he  paused,  studied  the  head-lines  again, 
and  gasped  with  such  pain  and  dread  that  his  wife  ran 
round  the  table  to  him,  thinking  he  had  a  stroke  of  apo- 
plexy. The  stewards  set  down  their  trays  with  a  thimip 
and  t:losed  in.  But  it  was  only  Jacob's  tongue  that  was 
paralyzed.  His  hand  was  palsied.  He  held  up  an  aspen 
newspaper  and  pointed  with  a  stuttering  forefinger  to 
the  dancing  lines: 

3SI 


EMPTY    POCKETS 
MURIEL  SCHUYLER  KIDNAPPED  I 

Young    Daughter  of   Jacob    Schuyler    Car- 
ried Off  by  Desperate  Gangsters  in 
Bullet-Riddled  Taxicab 

Police   Outwitted 
And    Outfought 

Several    Bystanders    Shot    Down — Officer 

Lowber  and  Chauffeur  Sbarra 

Not  Elxpected  to  Live 

HEIRESS'S     WHEREABOUTS     UNKNOWN 

GRAVE   FEARS    FOR   HER  SAFETY 

HER    SCREAMS    IN    VAIN 


The  art  of  the  head-line  builder  consists  in  breaking 
news  as  ungently  as  possible.  His  work  is  not  meant  for 
the  eyes  of  the  victim's  parents.  But  it  was  from  head- 
lines that  the  Schuylers  learned  of  Muriel's  adventure, 
and  had  no  inkUng  of  her  comfortable  security.  Every 
paper  seemed  to  add  some  new  anguish  to  their  eyes. 

Horrors  rained  on  Jacob  Schuyler  and  his  wiie  in  volleys 
from  the  ambush  of  the  unexpected.  They  had  no  warn- 
ing and  no  shelter. 

They  were  thoroughbreds  trained  to  absorb  shocks, 
but  this  struck  them  through  the  love  of  their  child. 
They  clung  together  in  common  and  mutual  terror  like 
two  children  lost  in  the  wood.  Their  hearts  were  both 
crjdng:  "My  poor  child!  My  poor  child!"  and  his  was 
also  crjdng,  "My  poor  wife!"  and  hers,  "My  poor  hus- 
band!" 

There  is  an  ancient  idiocy  permeating  fiction  and  pub- 
lic pretense:  that  the  rich  do  not  love  or  care  for  their 
children  as  the  poor  do;  that  the  rich  prefer  lap-dogs  and 
leave  their  unwelcome  offspring  to  liveried  servants,  while 
the  poor  unanimously  devote  their  entire  lives  to  their 

352 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

young.  As  if  generalized  slanders  or  flatteries  were  ever 
worth  the  ink  or  the  wind  it  takes  to  express  them. 

The  Schuylers  and  the  Angelilli  were  alike  in  family 
passion.  They  both  adored  their  young,  and  could  hardly 
endure  the  mere  thought  of  their  suffering. 

Muriel's  mother  had  borne  her  as  other  children  are 
borne— she  had  given  her  blood,  her  milk,  her  tears,  and 
her  love  to  her  daughter.  Of  course  she  was  stricken  at 
the  picture  of  her  danger.  She  went  up  and  down,  beat- 
ing her  palms  together  in  frantic  bewilderment,  then 
flung  herself  on  the  lounge,  frightened  beyond  weeping. 
Her  weakness  was  the  strength  of  Jacob.  He  had  to  be 
strong  for  her  sake  and  in  behalf  of  his  lost  ewe-lamb. 
He  had  to  pretend  a  confidence  he  did  not  feel. 

Money  now  stepped  up  in  all  its  glorious  panoply,  its 
ever -readiness  to  help  with  the  whole  versatility  of  its 
enablements. 

The  distraught  mother  was  too  heavy  for  the  bulky 
Jacob  to  lift,  but  his  heart  was  the  same  for  her  as  when, 
tall  and  slim  and  athletic,  he  had  picked  up  the  delicate 
wisp  she  was  and  carried  her  like  a  child.  Now  he  was 
cumbrous  and  rusty  in  caresses,  but  he  motioned  the 
stewards  and  maids  out,  and  lifted  her  till  he  could  sit 
by  her  and  hold  her  in  his  fat  arms  and  pat  her  Bible- 
back  and  mumble: 

"Don't  you  worry,  honey.  I'll  bring  her  home  to  you 
in  a  jiffy.  I'll  spend  a  million — ten  million — to  run  down 
that  pack  of  wolves.  Or  if  they  want  a  ransom,  I'll  pay 
'em  all  I've  got." 

His  wife  knew  as  well  as  he  did  that  money  was  not 
omnipotent.  She  voiced  the  fears  that  had  been  sickening 
him. 

"But  suppose  she  has  been  killed!  One  of  the  police 
might  have  shot  her.  Or  the  gunmen  might  have  stabbed 
her  or  beaten  her  to  death  to  keep  her  from  screaming. 
They  may  have  thrown  her  out  by  the  roadside  somewhere, 
or  down  the  Palisades.     She  may  be  lying  wounded  now 

353 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

in  some  horrible  ditch.  They  may  have  flung  her  into 
the  river.  Her  body,  her  pretty  Httle  body,  may  be —  Oh, 
Jacob,  Jacob,  Jacob!  Oh,  my  baby,  my  little  girl,  my 
little  baby  girl!" 

He  tried  to  comfort  her,  but  her  panic  was  catching 
him  by  the  throat.  He  rose  in  his  might  and  set  his 
teeth  and  his  fists,  and  said,  "I'll  have  her  here  in  an 
hour!"  She  wanted  to  follow  him, but  her  knees  could  not 
uphold  her. 

Jacob  ran  out  on  the  deck,  down  the  ladder  to  the 
launch,  and  ordered  full  speed  ahead.  The  only  vehicle 
he  found  ashore  was  an  anachronistic  hansom.  He 
plunged  in  and  ordered  the  man  to  gallop  to  his  office. 
Arrived  there,  he  hurried  down  the  corridor  of  the  build- 
ing and  ordered  the  elevator-man  not  to  stop  at  any  floor 
but  his. 

In  the  corridor  above  he  flushed  a  covey  of  reporters. 
They  clamored  about  him,  chattering:  "May  I  ask — " 
"Can  you  tell—"  "Did  the—"  "Is  it  true  that—" 
But  he  pressed  right  through,  storming  "Nothing  say," 
"Absolutely  nothing  say!" 

He  was  calling  out  orders  as  he  entered  his  suite  of 
offices. 

"Send  for  Pinkerton!  And  Bums!  Get  the  Com- 
missioner of  Police  on  the  wire!  Get  District  Attorney 
on  another  wire!  Get  my  lawyer!  Get  me  a  motor-car! 
A  fast  one!  Where's  Chivot?  Where  in  God's  name  is 
Chivot?" 

In  his  own  office  Mr.  Chivot  heard  him  coming.  Be- 
fore Jacob  could  begin  on   him  Mr.  Chivot  had  said: 

"She's  safe,  sir.     Good  morning." 

"Wha— at?" 

"Miss  Miuiel  just  telephoned  in,  sir.  She  said  for  you 
not  to  worry." 

Jacob  dropped  into  his  chair  and  swiveled  to  and  fro 
idiotically.     His  anxieties  had  collapsed  under  him. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  asked.     "At  home?" 
354 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"No,  sir.  Miss  Schuyler  is  at —  She  didn't  say,  sir, 
just  where,  but  she  gave  me  the  number.    I'll  get  it,  sir." 

"Did  she  ask  for  ransom — or  anything?  Where's  my 
check-book?     How  much  cash  have  we  got?" 

"Oh  no,  sir — pardon  me —  Ah,  hello!  .  .  .  Yes.  ...  Is 
this.  .  .  .  One  moment,  please." 

He  set  the  magic  instrument  before  old  Jacob  and 
Jacob  groaned  into  the  transmitter  one  husky,  "Hello?" 
He  got  back  a  lilt  of  youth  and  love: 

"Hello-o,  Daddy!  Bless  your  darling  old  heart.  And 
mother — how's  mother?  Hello — hello — hello!  oh,  dear! 
I'm  cut  off.     Hello!" 

Jacob  had  dropped  the  telephone  and  was  blubbering 
into  his  elbow  like  the  overgrown  cub  he  always  was 
where  his  child  was  concerned. 

Even  Mr.  Chivot's  eyes  looked  like  marbles  with  dew 
on  them,  and  his  important  Adam's  apple  went  up  and 
down  between  the  ropes. 

But  he  had  the  omnipresence  of  mind  to  take  up  the 
telephone  and  speak  to  the  distracted  Muriel.  Before  he 
could  make  her  understand  who  he  was,  she  stormed  at 
him: 

"Get  off  the  wire!  I'm  talking!  .  .  .  Please — go  away! 
.  .  .  Oh,  it's  you!  What's  the  matter  with  my  father? 
Where  is  he?    WTiy  doesn't  he  speak  to  me?" 

"He — he  is  crying,"  said  Mr.  Chivot.  It  was  one  of 
the  few  bhmt  and  undiplomatic  statements  he  had  ever 
made.  He  was  punished  instantly;  for  Muriel  set  up  a 
howl.     Between  the  two  of  them,  poor  Chivot ! 

Jacob  speedily  shamed  himself  into  self-control,  nodded 
Chivot  out  of  the  room,  and  began  with  fine  recovery  to 
berate  Muriel  for  giving  him  and  her  mother  such  a  scare. 

"Well,  I  Hke  that!"  she  answered,  with  the  gift  of  anger 
she  had  inherited.  "I  suppose  you're  disappointed  be- 
cause I  got  away  from  those  awfvil  men." 

This  brought  Jacob  to  terms  at  once.  He  poured  out 
love-speeches  like  a  suppliant  till  he  had  her  pacified. 

3!?  5 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Then  he  asked  her  to  go  home,  and  promised  that  he 
would  join  her  there  as  soon  as  he  could  collect  her  mother. 
Muriel  refused  to  go  home,  and  indicated  that  she  was  a 
fugitive  from  publicity: — "wanted"  by  the  reporters. 
Jacob  knew  that  no  wealth  could  bribe  that  army.  He 
told  her  to  put  on  a  veil  and  take  a  taxicab  to  one  of  the 
up-river  piers,  whence  he  would  take  her  off  to  the  yacht. 

Then  he  waved  aside  a  dozen  important  problems, 
wedged  through  the  tackling  reporters,  motored  back  to 
his  launch,  and  went  out  to  his  yacht,  flaunting  a  gleeful 
handkerchief  to  the  forlorn  woman  at  the  rail,  and  shout- 
ing across  the  high-shouldered  waves  at  the  slashing  prow 

"It's  all  right,  mother.  It's  aU  right.  The  baby  is 
safe.     It's  aU  right." 


CHAPTER  XLII 

WORTHING  woke  with  a  start.  He  had  forgotten  to 
set  his  alarm-clock,  but  a  kind  of  mental  alarm-clock 
shocked  him  awake.  He  "felt  two  natures  struggHng 
within  him."  One  whispered,  "Stay  in  bed!"  the  other 
thundered,  "Get  up  and  get  to  work." 

He  soused  his  weary  frame  in  a  cold  tub,  then  pushed  it 
into  his  clothes  and  tnmdled  it  to  Eccleston's  private 
hospital.  Muriel  was  not  there,  of  course,  and  Worthing 
proceeded  to  prepare  himself  to  assist  in  the  rites  of 
operation  in  the  priestly  robes  of  the  surgeon. 

Eccleston  was  all  agog  over  the  morning  papers,  but 
he  had  not  told  Happy  of  Miiriel's  adventure.  The  boy 
had  excitement  enough  to  occupy  him. 

Worthing  explained  to  Happy  that  Muriel  was  too  busy 
to  come.  The  boy  tried  to  smother  back  his  overpowering 
disappointment,  but  he  failed.     He  sighed: 

"And  I  t'ought  she  was  one  dame  what  a  guy  coidd 
bank  on  her  woid.  But  I  guess  all  skoits  is  alike.  Lem- 
me  hold  your  hand.  Doc.  Us  men  has  gotta  stick  to- 
gedder." 

He  gripped  Worthing's  triply  sterilized  fingers  and  the 
anesthetist  was  about  to  put  the  candle-snuffer  over  his 
face,  when  there  was  a  tap  on  the  door  and  Dr.  Worthing 
was  called  out  to  the  waiting-room,  where  a  densely  veiled 
woman  stood. 

Before  she  lifted  the  veil  Worthing  gasped:  "Muriel! 
Miss  Schuyler!" 

A  hand  shot  out  to  his,  and  a  muffled  whisper  came 

357 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

from  the  clouds:  "Hush!  I'm  in  disguise,"  She  ex- 
plained her  fear  of  the  police  and  the  press,  and  her  plan 
of  flight  to  her  father's  yacht. 

"Then  why  did  you  risk  coming  here?" 

"Because  I  promised  to  hold  Happy's  hand,  and  I — I 
had  to  see  you  and  tell  you  how  wonderful  you  were,  and 
how  grateful  I  am." 

"Grateful— for  what?" 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  should  never  have  been 
saved.  If  you  hadn't  followed  those  beasts  so  closely 
and  turned  them  off  their  track  and  delayed  them,  they 
would  have  got  away  with  me  entirely." 

"Do  you  think  that?"  he  sighed,  ecstatically. 

"I  know  it.  I  could  hear  the  wretches  talk,  couldn't 
I?  They  didn't  gag  my  ears.  And  I  heard  you  call  to 
me.     That  saved  me  from  dying  of  despair!" 

"Muriel!"  he  cried,  catching  her  hand  again. 

She  chuckled.  "I've  forgotten  your  first  name,  I'm 
afraid.     I  only  heard  it  once.     It's  Clinton,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"It's  a  rather  cold  name,  isn't  it?  It's  one  of  those 
first  names  made  over  out  of  a  last  name." 

"Call  me  anything  you  like." 

"I'll  have  to  think  up  something." 

A  stem-faced  nurse  appeared  Hke  a  gorgon  to  ruin  the 
tfite-i-tSte  with  the  grim  message,  "The  surgeons  are 
waiting." 

"Good  heavens!  and  I  haven't  seen  Happy." 

"Better  not  tell  him  about  your  adventure." 

He  led  her  into  Happy's  room,  where  the  boy  lay  waxen 
white,  all  swaddled  and  bound  for  the  altar  knives.  He 
rolled  to  his  side  and  shouted: 

"Dere  she  is!  Dere's  me  best  goil!  Dese  guys  was 
sa5an'  you  was  too  busy  to  come,  but  I  never  mistrusted 
you." 

It  was  a  gallant  and  chivalrous  lie. 

Muriel  had  been  preparing  an  elaborate  speech  of  bon 

358 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

voyage  to  Happy  on  his  cruise,  but  the  anesthetist  inter- 
posed: 

"I'm  sorry,  but  Dr.  Eccleston  is  very  busy  this  morning." 

"All  right,  all  right!"  said  Happy,  severely,  then  turned 
his  wistful  face  to  Muriel:  "Don't  you  care,  sweetheart. 
Dese  stoigeons  is  just  achin'  to  git  deir  hands  on  me.  Doc 
Woithin's  teUin'  me  dey's  goin'  to  toin  me  into  such  a 
woik  of  art  dat  dey'll  be  usin'  me  in  de  movies.  "We'll 
have  time  enough  to  talk  after  I  come  t'rough  de  sausage- 
machine.     Good-by  and  much  ubbliged." 

Aliuiel  bent  down  and  kissed  him  and  left  a  hasty  tear 
of  hers  upon  his  face.  He  clenched  his  rough  little  talons 
about  her  soft  fingers  and  nodded  to  the  anesthetist: 

"Get  busy.  Doc,  and  douse  me  glim." 

Muriel  tried  not  to  shiver  as  the  cone  was  pressed  over 
his  face.  Happy  wriggled  out  from  under  it  at  once  for 
a  last  comment: 

"Say,  dis  perfumery  remines  me  of  de  Gas-house  Dis- 
trick  where  I  foist  met  you.     Rememmer?     Goo'by!" 

Then  he  accepted  the  cone  and  obeyed  the  murmurous 
command  to  "breathe  in  deeply."  The  Httle  bellows  of 
his  scrawny  chest  rose  and  fell  in  an  impatient  eagerness 
as  he  gulped  down  the  mystic  vapor  of  annihilation. 

Muriel  breathed  with  him  and  kept  sending  messages 
of  courage  through  her  fingers  into  his.  He  answered 
clasp  for  clasp  with  a  slow  diminuendo  of  power,  tiU  at 
length  his  hand  lay  inert  in  hers  and  he  was  at  peace. 

It  was  she  that  was  filled  with  dread  of  the  sharp  in- 
struments, and  terrified  with  wondering  where  his  soul 
was  hovering  while  its  tenement  was  invaded  and  re- 
paired. They  wheeled  his  body  out  in  the  little  white 
tumbril,  followed  by  the  priests  in  their  robes.  Dr. 
Worthing  dared  not  shake  hands  even  with  her,  but  he 
lingered  to  beg  her  not  to  wait. 

"  It  may  be  a  long  time,  and  it  wiU  seem  much  longer." 

"But  I  must  know  what  happens,"  she  pleaded.  "I 
must  be  here  when  he  comes  back — ^if  he  does." 

359 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"But  he  will  suffer  a  good  deal,  you  know,  and  he  will 
think  he  suffers  more  than  he  does." 

"If  he  can  stand  it,  I  ought  to  be  able  to,"  she  an- 
swered. 

He  5delded  to  her  lovable  stubbornness  and  left  her. 

She  spent  the  interval  upon  a  rack  of  torture.  She 
paced  the  floor  of  the  waiting-room,  reading  books  and 
magazines  and  watching  the  hands  of  the  clock;  she  felt 
in  her  own  flesh  the  steels  that  were  searching  Happy's 
body. 

She  had  not  seen  the  morning  papers,  and  had  not 
dreamed  that  she  would  be  starred  in  them  as  the  head- 
liner  of  the  day.  She  came  across  a  copy  of  one  of  them, 
and  the  sight  of  her  name  in  big  type  shocked  Happy 
from  her  thoughts  for  a  time.  She  had  no  relish  for  the 
notoriety.  She  took  alarm  anew  at  the  thought  of  find- 
ing herself  co-starred  ia  to-morrow's  papers  with  Perry 
Merithew.  She  imagined  an  army  of  reporters  hunting 
for  her;  she  imagined  herself  the  captive  of  the  police. 
A  girlish  desire  to  hide  threw  her  into  a  panic. 

The  return  of  the  somber  procession  with  the  recon- 
structed shell  of  Happy  Hanigan  drove  herself  out  of  her 
thoughts,  and  she  took  the  boy's  limp  hand  again  and 
held  it  while  the  soul  resumed  the  body  and  strength 
flowed  back  into  the  fingers.  Only  now  he  was  returning 
into  pain  and  nausea  and  cruelly  enforced  repose. 

Worthing  tried  to  assure  her  that  the  distressful  out- 
cries were  the  mere  babblings  of  delirium,  but  she  could 
not  make  any  comforting  distinction  between  a  soul  that 
only  thought  it  was  hurt  and  a  soul  that  knew  it  was 
hurt. 

She  blamed  herself  now  for  bringing  these  anguishes 
upon  the  boy,  and  she  doubted  the  assurances  that  the 
operation  was  a  brilHant  success.  She  was  more  afraid 
now  of  the  reahty  of  recovered  life  than  of  the  occult 
terrors  of  anesthesia.  She  had  no  bravery  to  lend  the 
boy,  and  wept  till  he  recovered  wisdom  enough  to  under- 

360 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

stand  and  courage  enough  to  pretend  that  he  was  not 
suffering  at  all. 

He  brought  his  old-time  grin  into  play  and  laughed 
hollowly:  " It  was  de  gas  was  hollerin',  not  me.  I'm  feel- 
in'  so  fine  I  t'ink  I'll  take  a  ride  if  you  got  your  otter- 
mobile  handy." 

Everybody  collaborated  with  Happy  to  deceive  the 
nerve-shattered  girl,  and  she  was  evicted  from  the  room 
with  enough  illusions  to  sustain  her. 

Dr.  Worthing  insisted  on  riding  with  her  to  the  dock 
where  the  launch  from  the  yacht  was  waiting.  She  in- 
vited him  to  take  dinner  there  with  her,  and  he  needed 
no  urging. 

He  ttuned  away,  once  more  the  victim  of  hope. 

When  Miuiel  ran  up  the  ladder  to  the  deck  of  the  yacht, 
she  hugged  and  kissed  her  mother,  her  father,  and  the 
maids  and  shook  hands  with  the  servants  and  the  crew. 

Then  she  settled  down  to  rhapsodize  the  long  epic  of 
her  adventure  before  an  audience  that  copied  the  luxuri- 
ous terror  of  children  hearing  a  beautiful  ogre  story. 

Mrs.  Schuyler  wept  splendidly,  and  Jacob  stormed  and 
shuddered  and  swore  that  she  should  never  be  out  of 
their  sight  again.  Muriel  said  she  never  wanted  to  be. 
One  says  such  things  at  such  times. 

As  Muriel  described  her  cruise  through  midnight  New 
York,  they  listened  as  it  were  with  a  lilt,  and  a  vivid  sense 
of  speed  and  danger.  When  she  reached  the  point  of  her 
rescue,  and  told  how  she  stepped  out  of  the  stolen  limou- 
sine, they  were  jigging  with  excitement.  But  when  she 
finished  with  a  flourish:  "And  who  do  you  suppose  it 
was  that  rescued  me?  You'll  never  guess!  Mr.  Perry 
Merithew!"  their  eagerness  stopped  like  a  car  whose 
front  axle  breaks.  It  was  sickening.  Perry  Merithew's 
instinct  had  been  true.  The  very  mention  of  his  name 
sobered  the  Schuylers. 

"Oh  no!"  Mrs.  Schuyler  groaned. 

12  361 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Agh!"  Jacob  snarled,  and  walked  out  on  deck  to  emit 
a  few  necessary  curses  too  strong  for  the  family  circle. 
He  came  back  speechless,  but  full  of  wrath. 

With  the  cantankerousness  of  human  nature,  Muriel, 
who  had  not  yet  forgiven  Perry  Merithew  for  rescuing 
her,  felt  the  injustice  of  her  parents'  ingratitude,  and 
rushed  to  his  defense. 

"Oh,  he  was  perfectly  charming  about  it.  He  told  me 
that  we  must  keep  out  of  sight  of  the  reporters.  He  pro- 
tected me  in  every  way." 

"It  was  the  least  he  could  have  done!"  Jacob  sneered. 

When  people  we  like  do  the  right  thing  it  is  glorious; 
when  people  we  disUke  do  their  best  it  is  disgusting,  for 
they  are  spiking  our  guns. 

Muriel  did  not  waste  her  time  heroizing  Perry  Merithew 
before  that  hostile  audience,  but  its  injustice  set  her  heart 
toward  mercy  for  him.  To  appease  her  father  and  mother, 
she  minimized  the  rdle  he  played  and  maximized  the  share 
of  Dr.  Worthing. 

This  seemed  to  please  them  no  better.  If  she  could 
have  known  what  Winnie  Nicolls  tried  to  do,  his  name 
would  have  pleased  her  mother.  But  Dr.  Worthing  meant 
nothing  to  Mrs.  Schuyler.  To  Jacob  he  meant  the  young 
man  who  aided  and  abetted  Muriel's  slimiming  insanity. 
Also  he  meant  the  uneasiness  a  father  feels  at  finding  the 
male  and  romantic  element  cropping  up  increasingly  in 
his  daughter's  chronicles. 

He  was  sinking  into  a  state  of  hopeless  gloom  when 
Muriel  lifted  him  to  the  clouds  with  an  explosion  of  un- 
dreamed intelligence: 

"  Daddy,  I  can't  face  the  music.  I  want  to  go  to  Europe 
for  a  long  while.  I'm  afraid  of  the  police,  and  I  can't 
stand  this  sort  of  thing." 

She  caught  up  the  sheaf  of  morning  papers  and  spread 
them  out.  On  all  of  them  her  name  in  huge  type  out- 
flaunted  the  day's  murderers,  embezzlers,  politicians,  and 
victims  of  accident. 

362 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

In  other  times  and  places  the  unmarried  giri  was  guarded 
zealously  from  the  public  eye  and  the  public  gossip.  In 
these  days  her  name  may  suddenly  be  found  on  a  million 
newspapers.  She  may  find  herself  the  helpless  object  of 
international  blazonry. 

Muriel  had  done  no  wrong.  She  had  suffered  wrong. 
Yet  she  must  be  punished  hke  a  criminal.  She  must  be 
besieged  and  questioned  by  the  police,  interpreted  and 
misrepresented  by  the  reporters,  offered  up  as  a  subject 
for  cynical  guesswork,  stood  on  a  high  pillory  with  the 
fierce  yellow  light  of  joumaHsm  beating  on  her. 

A  modest,  well-bred  maiden  on  an  errand  of  mercy, 
Muriel  had  fallen  among  a  pack  of  wolves.  Escaped 
from  them,  she  was  to  be  forced  to  play  Lady  Godiva 
with  a  brass  band  ahead  and  nobody  staying  within- 
doors. 

The  publicity  was  outrageous  enough  in  any  case,  but 
Jacob  revolted  at  the  thought  of  seeing  his  daughter's  name 
bracketed  in  the  newspapers  with  Perry  Merithew's. 
Perry  Merithew  was  the  main  trouble,  and  the  only  ray 
of  Hght  in  the  whole  miserable  business  was  Muriel's  will- 
ingness to  escape.  Nowadays  parents  with  inconvenient 
daughters  do  not  slam  them  into  convents  for  refuge; 
they  send  them  to  Europe. 

Jacob  was  rejoiced.  He  ventiu"ed  a  compliment — a 
kind  of  back-handed  compUment:  "Muriel,  my  child,  it's 
the  first  sensible  idea  I've  heard  from  you  for  weeks.  I 
congratulate  you." 

Muriel  winked  at  her  mother.  They  always  shared  the 
amusement  or  the  anxiety  or  the  anger  Jacob  occasioned. 

Jacob  bustled  on:  "If  you  go  abroad  on  one  of  the 
steamers,  you  would  be  at  the  mercy  of  everybody. 
Those  liners  are  about  as  private  as  Broadway.  We'll 
take  the  yacht.  I've  a  few  things  to  attend  to,  and  I'll 
be  ready." 

"I've  a  few  things  to  attend  to  myself,"  said  Muriel. 

"Clothes,  of  course,"  Jacob  growled,  with  the  ancient 

363 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

masculine  despair  at  woman's  inability  to  undertake  any 
entei  prise  without  refitting. 

"No,  I've  got  clothes  enough." 

Jacob  pretended  to  swoon.  "I've  lived  to  hear  a 
woman  say  that!    Or  am  I  having  hallucinations?" 

Muriel  and  her  mother  exchanged  wireless  signals  again. 

Mtuiel  went  on.  "You  can  telephone  home  to  have 
the  trunks  packed  and  smuggled  aboard.  But  I've  got 
to  have  a  heart-to-heart  talk  with  that  darling  of  a 
Dr.  Worthing;  I've  got  to  see  that  the  poor  Balinsky  girl 
doesn't  get  deported,  and  I've  got  to  pay  a  proper  respect 
to  poor  Mr.  Merithew." 

"Let  Chivot  attend  to  it  all." 

"  Yes,  I  will !  He'll  do  as  well  as  he  did  in  getting  back 
the  Angelillo  boy.  Is  there  any  word  from  him,  I  won- 
der?" 

They  had  all  been  too  much  absorbed  in  the  narrative 
of  Muriel's  disappearance  to  consider  any  other  news. 
She  scanned  the  columns  eagerly,  and  there  on  an  inner 
page  was  a  picture  of  little  Filippo  with  a  story  of  his  re- 
turn to  his  family,  a  picture  of  him  as  he  came  home,  a 
long  account  of  his  adventures,  the  cruelties  he  had  en- 
dured, and  the  aid  he  had  given  the  poUce  in  tracing  the 
wretches  who  had  stolen  him. 

Muriel,  remembering  the  long  anguishes  of  the  boy's 
people,  could  imagine  the  festival  they  held  over  his  re- 
covery. She  rejoiced  to  tears  and  bent  her  head  on  the 
newspaper,  and  wept.  Her  parents  sorrowed  comfortably 
over  her  comfortable  tears,  and  they  were  not  angry 
when  she  raised  her  head  to  say: 

"Aren't  you  glad  I  disobeyed  you?  You  see,  it's  the 
duty  of  children  to  disobey  their  parents  now  and  then, 
isn't  it?" 

They  did  not  attempt  to  answer  that  riddle,  nor  the 
next  one  she  posed. 

"Another  thing:  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Perry  Merithew 
the  boy  might  never  have  come  home.     If  it  hadn't  been 

364 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

for  Perry  Merithew  I  might  never  have  come  home. 
How  can  he  be  bad  when  he  does  so  much  good  that  good 
people  might  have  done  and  didn't?" 

Jacob  was  so  bewildered  by  this  that  he  took  refuge 
in  a  desk-clearing  evasion:  "I  don't  have  to  decide  who's 
good  and  who's  bad.     I'm  not  God,  thank  God!" 

Muriel  and  her  mother  gasped  at  the  sacrilege  and 
looked  up  to  see  if  a  thunderbolt  were  not  crashing 
through  the  awning.     But  none  came. 

"Anjovay,"  said  Muriel,  "we've  all  got  to  be  polite 
to  Mr.  Merithew." 

"No,"  said  Jacob,  "I  don't  have  to  judge  him,  but 
neither  do  I  have  to  entertain  him." 

"You  get  him  mad  and  he'll  tell  on  me,"  Muriel  threat- 
ened.    This  argument  went  home. 

Jacob  surrendered.  "All  right.  Give  him  a  meal  and 
get  rid  of  him." 

Mrs.  Schuyler  suggested:  "You  might  have  him  and 
yoiu"  doctor  for  dinner  to-night,  and  finish  them  both  off 
at  once." 

Muriel  looked  canny.  "Have  both  my  beaux  here  at 
the  same  time?     Not  much!" 

Jacob  snorted:  "Don't — don't  talk  about  those  men 
sentimentally,  or  I'll  throw  them  both  overboard." 

Muriel  laughed  like  a  child  at  a  circus  over  her  power 
to  excite  such  floundering  wrath  with  such  a  gentle 
prod.  "All  righty,  Jacob,"  she  said.  "Keep  yotir  flan- 
nels on!" 

"The  impudence  of  children  nowadays  is  appalling,"' 
Jacob  groaned.  "Disobedience  isn't  enough — they've 
got  to  add  insult  to  indifference." 

Muriel's  answer  was  to  lift  his  arm,  place  it  around  her 
waist,  seat  herself  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  twist  his 
resisting  neck  till  she  could  make  a  face  directly  in  his. 
face,  then  kiss  him  on  the  tip  of  his  nose. 

It  was  the  supreme  impertinence  with  which  she  always 
crowned  her  presumptions,  and  it  always  made  him  sc 

36s 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

ferociously  ridiculous  that  he  always  surrendered  with  the 
angry  laughter  of  a  boy  whose  ribs  are  tickled. 

So  long  as  a  family  is  not  devoid  of  such  mischievous 
tenderness,  it  is  held  together  by  an  elastic  band  that 
will  yield  enough  to  keep  from  breaking.  With  Jacob 
restored  to  the  ranks,  Muriel  and  her  mother  arranged  to 
invite  Merithew  to  tea  in  the  afternoon,  and  Worthing 
to  dinner  in  the  evening.  The  notes  were  written  and 
sent  ashore  to  be  delivered  with  all  stealth.  At  midnight 
the  yacht  was  to  put  out  to  sea. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

PERRY  MERITHEW  had  not  had  many  secrets 
whose  pubHcation  would  have  been  to  his  credit. 
Life  took  him  no  more  seriously  than  he  took  life.  A  kind 
of  joke  was  played  on  him  now  in  the  fact  that  the  most 
creditable  thing  about  the  most  creditable  feat  he  ever 
achieved  was  the  fact  that  he  recognized  the  importance 
of  keeping  it  a  secret.  That  same  kind  of  sarcasm 
hounded  him  to  his  death. 

Perry  was  chucldingly  congratulating  himself  on  the 
double  victory  over  police  and  press  when  his  telephone 
rang.  He  rashly  answered  it  himself — a  thing  he  could 
rarely  afford  to  do.  His  non-committal  "Well?"  evoked 
a  strident: 

"That  you,  Perry  boy?" 

"Oh — er — ah — yes.     How  are  you,  Pet?" 

"Pimk,  thanks.  Just  able  to  sit  up  and  eat  a  bite.  I 
say,  old  dear,  run  down  to  lunch  with  me  at  the  Vander- 
bilt.     I'm  buying." 

"Thanks,  but  I've— " 

"Another  engagement?    Break  it!" 

"Can't." 

"  Better  come."  This  was  in  a  darker  tone  with  a  trace 
of  threat. 

"Sorry,  but—" 

Her  loud  voice  went  lower.  "  It's  about  the  mysterious 
rescuer  of  Muriel  Sch — " 

"I'll  come!"  he  hastened  to  say.  The  voice  grew  loud 
again. 

' '  Bully !    The  Delia  Robbia  room,  at  one. " 
367 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"1*11  be  there,  thank  you,  damn  you!" 

He  heard  the  odious  racket  of  her  laughter.  He 
slammed  the  receiver  on  the  hook  and  oirsed  her  fer- 
vently.- 

He  longed  the  more  to  hear  from  Muriel. 

He  delayed  his  departure  till  the  last  moment,  and 
still  no  word  from  her.  Fearing  that  she  would  telephone 
in  his  absence,  he  did  what  he  almost  never  did — left 
word  with  his  man  where  he  was  to  be. 

He  found  Pet  waiting,  and  they  descended  the  steps 
to  the  cellar  de  luxe,  where  Pet  had  reserved  a  table  in 
the  deepest  nook.  When  the  head  waiter  offered  Perry 
the  card.  Pet  took  it  from  him. 

"It's  my  lunch,  Umberto.  Two  of  my  cocktails.  You 
remember?  And  don't  put  in  that  sweet  gin  again,  or 
you'll  hear  from  me." 

Without  consulting  Perry  she  ran  through  the  order. 
When  the  head  waiter  had  sent  the  waiters  flying,  and 
taken  himself  off.  Perry  groaned: 

"I  can't  eat  all  that  stuff.     I  just  had  breakfast." 

"But  they  say  the  way  to  a  man's  heart  is  via  his  tirni. 
And  I'm  on  my  way." 

"How  much  and  what  for?" 

"Perry  darHng,  when  you're  so  very  nice  I  know  you 
mean  to  refuse.  You're  one  of  those  who  put  sugar  on 
the  quinine  and  quinine  on  the  sugar.  But  this  is  busi- 
ness.    I've  got  something  to  sell  that  you  want  to  buy." 

"Yes?" 

"Silence." 

"That  seems  to  be  your  principal  stock  in  trade  lately. 
What  do  you  think  you  know  now?" 

"I  know  who  saved  Muriel  Schuyler." 

"Really?  Tell  me!  It  seems  to  be  quite  a  mystery. 
Why  don't  you  notify  the  police  or  the  papers?" 

"I  thought  I'd  better  ask  your  permission  first.  Of 
-course  I  recognized  your  fine  Italian  hand.  You  knew 
where  she  was  to  be  taken.     You  started  out  to  find  her." 

368 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"So  did  Winnie  Nicx)lls,  and  perhaps  he — " 

"Oh  no,  he  didn't!  I  asked  him,  and  he  nearly  wept 
when  he  said  it  wasn't  his  luck." 

"Well?" 

"Anybody  but  you  would  have  swaggered  all  over  the 
place." 

"Why  not  me?" 

"Because  you  have  your  own  secrets  with  little  Muriel 
Money  passes  between  you  at  dances;  you  know  where 
she  is  kidnapped ;  you  go  get  her,  but  you  don't  dare  let 
anybody  know  it." 

"And  why  not?" 

"Because,  sweet  child  of  my  soul — because  you  are 
one  of  those  darling  devils  who  compromise  whatever 
you  touch.  Anybody  who  shakes  hands  with  you  smells 
of  brimstone  for  a  week." 

"And  yet  you  lunch  with  me?" 

"Me?  Ha!  People  couldn't  say  anjrthing  about  me 
half  as  bad  as  they've  already  said.  I've  had  a  severe 
attack  of  gossipitis,  and  recovered,  and  now  I'm  immune. 
I  can  even  be  seen  alone  in  pubUc  with  you.  Perry  darUng,. 
and  not  suffer." 

"But  how  about  me?"  he  smiled.  "Won't  I  suffer 
from  being  seen  with  you?  There  are  degrees  of  deviltry 
among  us  devils." 

"Don't  be  humorous.  Perry.  As  I  was  saying,  every- 
body that  is  ever  going  to  stop  speaking  to  me  has  stopped 
long  ago.  The  rest  of  them  know  that  I'm  on  the  square,, 
and — " 

"I  beg  yotir  pardon.     I  missed  that  last." 

"Even  Mrs.  NicoUs  has  asked  me  up  to  her  blow-out 
at  Newport,  and  I'm  going." 

"Don't  let  me  detain  you." 

"I'm  traveling  on  your  money." 

"Whew!    What's  the  fare?" 

"Five  hundred  dollars." 

"Make  it  New  Zealand,  and  I'll  pay  it — one  way.'^ 
369 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Are  you  as  afraid  of  me  as  all  that?" 

"I'm  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  you." 

"You  don't  mind  my  telling  the  papers,  then,  that 
you  rescued  Muriel  Schuyler  from  the  gunmen?" 

"Not  at  all.  Only  be  sure  to  address  it  to  the  comic 
supplements.  The  news  editor  might  ask  you  where  you 
got  such  a  crazy  idea  and  what  evidence  you  based  it  on." 

Pet  was  not  shaken  at  all  in  her  belief,  but  she  was  a 
trifle  shaken  in  her  confidence.  She  assumed  a  pleading 
tone;  a  crucial  mistake  in  her  business: 

"Now,  Perry,  don't  try  to  bluff  your  grandmother. 
You  got  Muriel  out  of  the  scrape,  and  you're  trying  not 
to  get  her  into  another.  It's  mighty  white  of  you.  All  I 
want  is  for  you  to  be  sweet  enough  to  lend  me  the  money 
to  buy  me  a  costume  for  Mrs.  Nicolls'  Au  Fond  de  la 
Mer.  You  ought  to  help  me,  because  if  I  can  get  Winnie 
it  takes  out  of  your  way  a  dangerous  rival  for  Muriel's 
attention." 

This  last  was  a  tactical  error.  It  touched  Perry's  chival- 
ry to  the  core,  because  it  put  an  evil  significance  upon  his 
interest  in  Muriel. 

"Look  here,  Pet.  Muriel  Schuyler  is  the  decentest 
young  woman  I've  ever  met.  And  I've  only  met  her 
once  or  twice.  It's  simply  unspeakable  for  you  to  waste 
your  ghastly  imagination  on  her  character." 

"  She  stands  for  you,  Perry.  One  rotten  apple  in  a  bar- 
rel, you  know.  You're  mighty  anxious  to  protect  her  from 
me,  but,  by  the  Lord!  you've  got  to  pay  for  protection." 

"Plain  blackmail,  eh?" 

"Perry,  if  you  use  that  word  again  I'll  horsewhip  you. 
I  swear  I  will." 

He  smiled,  unterrified.  "What  .word  do  you  prefer, 
Angel-face?" 

"I'm  hard  up  and  I  want  to  borrow  some  money.  I 
offer  to  do  you  a  favor  and  ask  you  to  do  me  one — ^that's 
all." 

"Borrow,  eh?    But  borrowing  implies  returning.'' 

370 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"I'll  return  it — when  I  marry  Winnie  Nicolls." 

"That  '11  be  the  day  after  Never.  When  old  Mrs. 
Nicolls  invites  you  to  her  party  that  doesn't  mean  for 
life.  She  isn't  giving  her  Winnie  away  as  a  souvenir, 
you  know.  If  you're  offering  me  this  as  an  investment, 
Pet — ump-umm ! ' ' 

She  was  in  such  a  disarray  of  anger,  anxiety,  helpless- 
ness, desperation,  that  he  was  tempted  to  slip  her  one  of 
his  thousand-dollar  bills  as  a  charity.  He  had  such  im- 
pulses, and  the  more  foolish  they  were  the  more  they 
fascinated  him. 

He  was  saved  from  the  extravagance  by  a  page  who 
came  to  his  table  with  the  word  that  he  was  "wanted 
on  the  'phone  by  a  lady." 

Perry  was  sure  that  it  was  Muriel,  and  left  in  such 
haste  that  he  carried  his  napkin  half-way  through  the 
dining-room  before  he  realized  it  and  flung  it  on  the  tray 
of  an  omnibus.  He  closed  the  door  of  the  telephone-booth 
as  gingerly  as  if  it  were  a  boudoir,  and,  gathering  his  fea- 
ttires  into  a  gorgeous  smile,  cooed  into  the  receiver  his 
most  honeyfied  "Hello." 

It  was  not  Muriel  that  answered  him,  but  a  voice  that 
asked,  "Is  that  choo,  Mist'  Murryt'ew?" 

"A  new  maid  or  somebody  speaking  for  her,"  he 
thought,  and  answered  "Yes." 

"Say,  listen!    I'm  talkin'  from  Noo  Joisey." 

"New  Jersey!    How  on  earth  did  you  get  there?" 

"I  got  here  under  the  oith.  And  it  was  some  trip, 
take  it  from  me.    Well — say,  listen!" 

"Who  are  you,  anyway?" 

"Aw,  you  know  me." 

"No  doubt,  but  I  don't  place  you  at  the  moment." 

"Say,  listen!  I  don't  dast  give  me  name.  Them  tele- 
phone molls  has  ears  could  hear  a  mile.  I'm  the  little  lady 
you're  dancin'  with  last  night  and  tips  you  off  to  how  you 
was  to  save  a  soitain  pawty  was  bein'  kidnapped.  Get 
me?" 

371 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

**0h  yes,  of  course.    How  do  you  do?" 

*'  I'm  grand,  I  don't  think.  I'm  yours  for  life  for  namin' 
no  names  in  the  papers.  I  been  readin'  'em.  You  can  get 
the  N'York  paper  'way  over  here  in  Joisey  City.  But  they 
tell  me  me  man  is  collared." 

"Say  that  in  English,  please." 

"Say,  listen!  Remember  me  tellin'  you  me  husband 
was  leadin'  the  gang  was  doin'  the  job?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  the  flatties  nailed  imi." 

"Once  more,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Aw!    he  was  urrested." 

"Oh,  that's  too  bad!     I  am  sorry." 

"I'm  not.  If  he  hadn'  'a'  went  to  jail,  I'd  *a'  went  to 
the  morgue.  Honest.  I  beat  it  just  in  time.  It  was  a 
case  of  the  quick  or  the  dead  with  me,  all  right,  all  right." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Perry,  impatiently  patient. 
*'But  I'm  glad  to  hear  that  you're  safe." 

"Oh  yes,  I'm  safe  from  me  husband;  but  that  don't 
get  me  nothin'  to  eat,  you  know.  If  I  gotta  croak  from 
starvin'  I'd  rather  it  was  him  got  me.  It  would  be  less 
trouble  for  me,  and  more  fun  for  him.  Well,  'z  I 's  sayin', 
seems  to  me  like  it  was  kind  of  up  to  you  and  that  soitain 
pawty  we  spoke  of  to  look  after  me  and  see  I  don't  do  a 
fade-away  from  gettin'  out  the  habit  of  eatin'.  Do  you 
see  what  I  mean?" 

"Well — yes,  I  rather  fancy  I  do." 

"And  what  you  fancy  you're  goin'  to  do  about  it?" 

"I'll  have  to  think  it  over." 

"While  I  eat  me  finger-nails  and  drink  the  public  air? 
Not  on  your  sweet  Hfe.  I  done  you  a  good  toin  and  you 
got  a  right  to  slip  me  some  coin  and  sHp  it  quick." 

"How  much  of  a  slip  would  you  need?" 

Ida  hoped  to  get  fifty  dollars,  so  she  said,  "A  hundred 
dollars  '11  hold  me." 

"All  right,"  said  Perry. 

"For  a  while,"  Ida  hastily  amended. 

372 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Perry  shook  his  head.  The  sliding  scale  of  the  black- 
mailer's art  was  being  pushed  along.  But  he  took  down 
Ida's  assumed  name  and  her  temporary  address,  and 
vowed  that  he  would  remit  that  afternoon. 

He  felt  that  Ida  had  at  least  deserved  as  much  as  she 
got.  But  what  had  Pet  Bettany  done  to  collect  wages 
on?  He  went  back  to  her  with  anger  and  stubbornness 
in  his  heart.  When  Pet  reiterated  her  demand,  he  did 
not  spare  her  feelings.     Alost  bluntly  he  refused  her. 

When  she  threatened  to  appeal  to  Muriel  again  he 
laughed.  "If  you  learn  where  she  is  let  me  know,  will 
you?     I  can't  find  a  trace  of  her." 

Pet  snapped:  "All  right  for  you,  Perry  mine.  I'll  get 
you  yet." 

Then  they  dismissed  the  subject,  and  finished  the  lunch 
in  bartering  small  talk  and  scandal  with  such  amiability 
that  the  waiter  never  suspected  that  they  had  quarreled. 

Pet  insisted  on  paying  the  bill,  and  they  parted  at  the 
taxicab  in  apparently  the  friendliest  spirit.  He  went 
home  to  find  Muriel's  invitation  to  tea  on  the  yacht,  and 
his  heart  rejoiced. 

But  in  Pet's  heart  was  rage.  She  spent  much  time  and 
some  money  in  calling  up  Muriel,  only  to  find  out  that 
she  had  vanished. 

Pet  did  not  go  to  Newport.  She  did  not  gleam  at  Mrs. 
Nicolls'  submarine  fete.  She  wept  like  a  little  fiend 
deprived  of  a  famous  wash.  She  hated  her  mother  for 
being  what  she  called  poor.  She  hated  Muriel  Schuyler 
for  being  inaccessible.  She  hated  Perry  Merithew  for 
resisting  her  attack.  She  hated  Perry  almost  as  much  as 
she  hated  Muriel. 

But  she  did  not  inform  the  newspapers  of  Perry's  rescue, 
because  once  more  her  bolt  would  be  shot.  Instead,  she 
promised  herself  a  sufficient  squaring  of  accounts  the 
moment  the  chance  arose. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

MURIEL  dared  not  go  ashore.  Her  father  warned  her 
that  the  poHce  would  be  seeking  her,  and  that  if  she 
were  found  she  would  be  held  as  a  witness  under  heavy- 
bond.  He  was  afraid  to  go  ashore  himself;  he  sent  a 
man  to  telephone  Mr.  Chivot  to  come  aboard.  And  he 
dropped  down  the  Bay  with  the  yacht  and  kept  steam  up. 

Chivot  came,  and  was  loaded  with  errands  of  the 
greatest  complexity,  which  he  would  be  sure  to  remember 
marvelously  and  accomplish  without  the  least  mistake. 

Muriel  commissioned  him  to  collect  from  the  police  the 
money  recovered  from  the  kidnappers  of  the  little  Angelillo 
boy,  and  to  devote  it  to  paying  the  expenses  of  Happy 
Hanigan's  operation  and  recovery.  Also  she  insisted  that 
Mr.  Chivot  should  take  up  the  rescue  of  the  Balinsky 
family  from  deportation,  and  carry  it  to  the  President  of 
the  United  States  if  necessary. 

Mr.  Chivot  protested  that  the  President  was  not  easy 
to  reach,  and  that  letters  of  this  sort  would  be  simply 
referred  back  to  the  department  concerned. 

"If  he  could  only  be  made  to  understand,  he  would 
interfere,  I  know,"  Muriel  insisted. 

Mr.  Chivot  attempted  a  sarcasm.  "You'd  better  write 
him  all  about  it  yourself." 

To  his  dismay,  Muriel  leaped  at  the  idea.  "I  will!" 
she  cried,  like  the  allegory  of  Chicago.  "How  do  I  ad- 
dress him:  Your  Royal  Highness?  or  Your  Serene  High 
Mightiness,  or  Your  Gracious  Majesty,  or  how.?" 

Mr.  Chivot  groaned:  "You  can  say  'Your  Excellency,' 

374 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

if  3^ou  want  to;  but  since  your  father  voted  against  him 
you  might  begin,  'Dear  Mr.  President.'" 

"Is  that  all ?"  she  gasped.  "Why,  that's  the  way  you'd 
address  anybody!" 

Mr.  Chivot,  who  knew  everything,  including  his  own 
equalicy  with  anybody  on  earth,  explained:  "We're  like 
France,  where  every  man  is  monsieur  and  every  woman 
madame  or  mademoiselle." 

After  a  moment  of  disappointment  at  the  tameness  of 
it,  Muriel  felt  suddenly  a  little  pang  of  pride.  She 
laughed.  "It's  rather  nice  to  Hve  in  a  country  where 
we're  all  so  equal,  isn't  it?" 

She  had  previously  regretted  the  absence  of  the  pomp 
and  circumstance  of  foreign  peerage.  Now  she  felt  that 
it  was  even  more  gorgeous  to  have  the  glory  distributed 
than  to  have  it  restricted  to  a  few  coronets  and  garters 
and  a  few  yards  of  black- tailed  white  ermine.  The  sun- 
light has  gilt  enough  for  every,  one. 

She  worked  a  long  while  on  her  letter,  tearing  up  an 
unconscionable  amount  of  stationery  with  groans  of  dis- 
gust, violently  punishing  the  paper  as  if  it  were  to  blame. 
At  last  she  threw  revision  to  the  winds  and  wrote  it  all 
in  one  dash,  and  achieved  at  least  the  first  essence  of  a 
good  letter — spontaneity.  This  is  what  she  showed  her 
father: 

Dear  Mr.  President, — I  beg  a  thousand  pardons  for  intrud- 
ing on  so  busy  a  person  as  Your  Excellency  must  be,  especially 
as  you  don't  like  my  father's  principles  and  he  didn't  vote  for 
you.  But  I'll  make  him  next  time,  if  you  can  see  your  way 
clear  to  doing  me  a  terribly  important  favor.  And  this  isn't 
bribery,  either. 

Everybody  knows  that  you  are  a  very  just  man.  I  am  sure 
that  you  will  take  pleasure  in  seeing  justice  done  to  an  awfully 
pitiful  case.     I'll  tell  it  as  briefly  as  I  can. 

You  see,  sir,  a  poor  Russian  Jew  named  Michal  Balinsky 
came  over  here  to  escape  from  the  Black  Hundreds.  He  worked 
and  starved  till  he  saved  money  to  bring  over  his  wife  and 

375 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

daughter.  They  arrived  and  passed  safely  through  Ellis 
Island.  But  nearly  a  year  later  the  daughter  broke  down  with 
nervous  prostration.  The  doctors — all  except  a  very  brilliant 
young  physician  named  Clinton  Worthing — said  that  she  was 
insane  and  ordered  her  deported.  This  meant  that  the  mother 
would  have  to  go  back  with  her  for  ever.  And  it  was  danger- 
ous for  them  in  Russia.  And  the  poor  father  would  be  all  alone 
here.  He  could  not  go  with  them,  because  it  would  have  meant 
death  to  him,  as  it  means  starvation  to  the  only  two  he  has 
on  earth.  It  is  simply  too  cruel  for  words,  and  I  hope — I  think 
I  know — ^that  you  will  do  everything  in  your  power  to  prevent 
this  cruel,  awful,  inhuman,  un-American  crime  against  a  poor  lit- 
tle, harmless,  pathetic  family.  They  have  suffered  enough  with- 
out this  Government  picking  on  them.  They  fled  from  Russia 
because  it  was  too  cruel  for  them.  You  don't  want  it  said  that 
thr  country  is  cruder  than  Russia,  do  you? 

The  newspapers  are  cruel  enough,  as  you  know  all  too  well. 
Through  no  fault  of  mine  I've  got  to  go  to  Europe  on  account 
of  them.  A  poor  President  can't  get  away,  can  you?  I  want 
to  leave  the  case  of  the  Balinsky  family  at  your  feet. 

This  letter  is  not  in  proper  form  for  an  appeal,  but  please 
accept  it  as  a  petition  thrown  into  your  carriage.  And  please, 
oh,  please,  send  word  to  your  Secretary  of  Labor  that  he  must 
under  no  circumstances  refuse  the  appeal  when  it  comes  before 
him — if  it  is  not  there  already. 

Dr.  Clinton  Worthing,  an  eminent  young  surgeon  of  the 
Belle vue  staff,  will  testify  that  the  girl  is  not  permanently  in- 
sane, and  he  guarantees  to  cure  her  if  he  is  allowed  to.  And  my 
father  and  I  will  guarantee  that  she  does  not  become  a  burden 
on  the  Government.  So  I  hope  and  pray  that  you  will  stretch 
out  your  powerful  hand  and  shelter  these  poor  little  innocent 
sheep  from  slaughter. 

With  no  end  of  thanks  in  advance,  I  beg  you  to  believe  me, 
dear  Mr.  President, 

Most  gratefully  and  respectfully  yours, 

Muriel  Schuyler. 

Jacob  read  the  letter  through  and  laughed  tenderly 
over  it. 

'What  do  you  think  of  it?"  Muriel  asked,  anxiously. 
376 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"It's  not  exactly  what  Chivot  would  have  written," 
Jacob  smiled. 

"But  wiU  the  President  be  offended?" 

"He  has  daughters,"  said  Jacob,  and  reached  up  and 
caught  her  cheeks  in  his  palms  and  dragged  her  head  down 
within  kissing  reach. 

She  seated  herself  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  with  her  dense 
copper  hair  shadowing  the  sparse  platinum  of  his,  and  be- 
gan to  wheedle.  "Daddy,  I  want  you  to  give  me  a  lot 
of  money  to  spend  on  poor  people.     Won't  you?" 

"What  do  you  call  a  lot?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Sometimes  a  very  httle  will  save  some 
awfully  nice  person  from  a  terrible,  terrible  tragedy. 
Sometimes  it  takes  more." 

"I  give  a  lot  to  the  organized  charities,  and  so  does 
your  mother." 

"I  know,  and  it  does  no  end  of  good;  but  I'd  like  some 
that  I  can  call  my  very  own.  And  I  want  you  to  let  me 
engage  Dr.  Worthing  on  a  salary  to  go  round  as  a  kind 
of  Good  Samaritan  looking  for  people  that  need  help." 

"For  the  Lord's  sake!" 

"He's  a  wonderful  physician,  and  he  knows  heaps 
about  frauds  and  swindles,  and  he  wouldn't  waste  the 
money." 

"Nonsense,  my  child!" 

"Then  I  don't  go  to  Europe.  I'll  stay  here  and  face 
the  music  and  drag  you  all  into  the  papers." 

This  pistol  at  his  head  brought  his  hands  up  again, 
and  he  agreed  to  talk  it  over  with  Dr.  Worthing  at  dinner. 

And  now  the  launch  came  beetling  over  the  water,  bear- 
ing the  chivalrous  Mr.  Merithew  to  tea. 

Like  others  of  their  group,  the  Schuylers  could  be  either 
miserly  or  spendthrift  of  either  money  or  hospitality. 
They  resolved  that  Perry  Merithew  had  earned  the  best 
the  house  could  afford. 

As  he  came  up  the  side  of  the  yacht  his  hand  was 
377 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

seized  in  both  the  full,  fat  hands  of  Jacob,  who  exclaimed: 
"My  boy,  I  can  never  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am  to  you 
for  taking  my  poor  little  girl  from  those  hounds.  Frankly, 
I  hadn't  expected  such  heroism  from  you.  The  tact  you 
displayed  did  not  surprise  me,  but  the  heroism — God 
bless  you  for  that." 

Perry  stammered,  and  was  as  awkward  as  a  baseball 
hero  acknowledging  the  plaudits  of  the  bleachers.  Next 
he  passed  into  the  almost  hysterical  gratitude  of  Mrs. 
Schuyler.  And  from  her  into  the  boyishly  awkward 
acknowledgments  of  Muriel. 

Tea  was  served  on  deck  with  the  best  service,  but  Perry 
did  not  take  tea.  Jacob  joined  him  in  a  substitute. 
Something  just  as  bad. 

Mviriel  made  no  stint  of  her  praise.  She  was  neither 
tired  nor  sleepy  now,  and  she  was  very,  very  beautiful 
in  her  yachting  white,  with  all  New  York  and  Brooklyn 
and  the  Bay  in  a  cyclorama  round  about. 

Perry  lost  his  head  completely.  She  seemed  so  admi- 
rable and  so  nobly  desirable  that  he  began  to  think  her 
not  unattainable.  He  was  somewhat  older,  of  course,  but 
he  felt  as  young  as  he  ever  had  felt,  and  he  permitted  his 
fancy  to  play  upon  her,  though  her  mother  kept  alluding 
to  his  wife,  his  charming  wife.  Still,  wives  are  not  the 
obstacles  nowadays  they  once  were. 

Perry  would  have  been  willing  to  linger  there  for  the 
rest  of  his  existence.  Indeed,  Jacob  had  to  get  rid  of 
him  at  last  by  saying  that  the  launch  was  going  ashore  to 
bring  out  a  dinner  guest.  He  took  the  hint  and  made  his 
adieux,  covered  with  phrases  of  praise  and  thanks  that 
fairly  hung  his  neck  with  Hawaiian  flower  ropes.  Then 
Muriel  and  her  family  made  haste  to  change  to  the  dinner 
uniform. 

When  Perry  stepped  ashore  he  found  a  yoimg  man  wait- 
ing whom  he  did  not  know.  Nor  did  the  young  man  know 
him.  They  looked  at  each  other  so  jealously  that  their 
ver>'  eyes  sparred. 

378 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Dr.  Worthing  came  aboard  in  a  state  of  acute  embar- 
rassment. He  was  angry  at  his  ignorance.  It  was  his 
first  yacht.     But  he  walked  as  large  as  if  he  owned  it. 

Muriel  met  him  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  and  he  clung 
to  her  hand  as  if  she  were  pulling  him  out  of  drowning 
waters.  He  frightened  her  pleasantly  by  the  greediness 
of  his  clutch,  and  she  hastened  to  pass  him  on  to  her 
parents. 

When  they  had  given  him  warm  hand-clasps  and  re- 
garded him  with  the  fascinated  horror  parents  feel  for 
young  men  interested  in  their  young  daughters,  Muriel 
said: 

"Speak  your  piece  now,  Susan." 

Mrs.  Schuyler,  who  was  Susan,  glared  at  Muriel,  then 
began  an  oration  of  gratitude  for  Worthing's  efforts  to 
rescue  Muriel.  This  robbed  the  taciturn  youth  of  what- 
ever words  he  might  have  had  in  his  possession.  He 
made  a  few  gestures  of  deprecation,  swallowed  hard, 
smiled  miserably,  felt  an  idiot. 

When  dinner  was  fairly  in  progress,  Muriel  signaled 
Jacob  to  attack  the  job  she  had  imposed  on  him. 

"My  daughter  is  called  abroad  rather  unexpectedly. 
Dr.  Worthing,  and  she  has  to  leave  a  niunber  of  things 
undone.  She  insisted  that  I  ought  to — that  is,  I'm  very 
glad  to — er — I  was  wondering  if  you  cared  to  accept  a — 
er — a  kind  of  a — sort  of  a — roving  commission." 

Dr.  Worthing  was  bewildered.  "I  don't  believe  I 
quite  understand." 

"That's  strange,"  Muriel  exclaimed,  with  a  withering 
glance  at  her  father,  "when  he  explained  it  so  clearly  and 
fully." 

Then  she  outlined  her  plan  to  him  as  she  had  outlined 
it  to  her  father,  only  with  every  imaginable  difference  of 
manner.  Now  she  was  not  a  vspoiled  child  wheedling 
further  exactions  from  a  father  who  protested  everything 
on  general  principles,  but  she  was  a  coquette  practising 
her  wiles  on  a  man. 

379 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

They  can't  help  it,  at  that  age — ^perhaps  not  at  any 
age;  but  a  spectator  at  too  great  a  distance  to  be  an 
auditor  would  never  have  imagined  that  the  young 
woman  was  asking  the  young  man  to  accept  a  salary  for 
acting  as  her  benevolent  agent  in  the  slums. 

That  was  one  trouble.  She  fascinated  Wortliing  so 
much  that  all  he  could  think  of  was  how  lovable  she  was, 
how  intolerable  her  absence  would  be,  and  how  impossible 
it  was  that  he  should  think  of  taking  her  wages  when  he 
wanted  her  heart.  His  mind  kept  telling  him,  "If  j'ou 
take  a  job  as  her  father's  employee,  you  cut  yourself  off 
from  her  hand  for  ever."  There  are  occasions  when  love 
works  severance  more  than  hostility. 

He  refused  with  much  firmness  and  as  much  expression 
of  polite  regret  as  he  could  manage. 

Mtuiel  sank  back  disheartened  and  discouraged.  She 
was  not  keen  enough  to  realize  the  compliment  he  paid 
her.     She  felt  herself  rebuffed. 

Her  mother  took  up  the  neglected  business  of  talk, 
and  talked  about  health. 

Mrs.  Schuyler  and  Jacob  had  reached  the  age  when 
their  soiils  were  fighting  for  their  bodies  against  increas- 
ing dispossess  proceedings,  that  must  eventually  oust 
them  from  their  tenements.  Their  interest  in  their  own 
engines  was  tremendous.  They  kept  Dr.  Worthing  talk- 
ing about  the  newest  theories  and  practices. 

Mrs.  Schuyler  was  for  ever  changing  phj^sicians;  the 
next  doctor  was  always  -^sculapius  himself;  the  preceding 
doctor  was  always  a  mountebank  or  a  pantaloon.  She 
was  soon  convinced  that  Dr.  Worthing  could  prescribe 
for  her  the  very  elixir  of  life.  She  overwhelmed  him 
when  the  roast  came  in  with  a  quiet  remark: 

"Jacob  dear,  it  strikes  me  that  it  would  be  a  splendid 
idea  to  ask  Dr.  Worthing  to  come  along  with  us  as  our 
family  physician." 

"But  Kenneman  is  already  engaged,"  said  Jacob.  "He 
comes  aboard  to-night." 

380 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"  Ah,  Kenneman !' '  groaned  Mrs.  Schuyler.  ' '  He  doesn't 
know  anything.     He's  an  old  fool!" 

"Well,"  said  Jacob,  "it  might  be  arranged.  If  Dr. 
Worthing  is  free." 

Dr.  Worthing  could  not  speak.  Suddenly  the  steward 
had  set  down  upon  the  table  not  a  huge  roast  on  a  silver 
charger,  but  a  wonderland — a  cloudy  vision  of  towers 
and  palaces  of  Alps  and  Fontainebleaux,  with  Thames 
and  Rhine  like  ribbons  winding  from  Killamey  to  Como. 
He  saw  himself  with  Muriel  in  oceanic  moon-nights  and 
Norwegian  midnight  sunrises.  He  saw  her  at  his  elbow 
in  motor-cars  and  gondolas.  He  visited  with  her  Chamou- 
nix  and  Montmarte,  the  Lido  and  the  Lichtentaler  Allee 
— all  the  places  he  had  read  about  and  had  traveled  when 
he  studied  medicine  abroad. 

The  steward  had  placed  upon  the  board  a  vast  platter 
of  romance,  and  Jacob  was  carving  him  a  slice  of  the 
rare. 

Muriel,  too,  must  have  seen  such  a  vision,  for  she  turned 
pale,  then  red,  then  pale  again.  Her  nostrils  were  tense 
and  her  hands  uneasy  of  control. 

Mrs.  Schuyler,  glancing  at  Dr.  Worthing,  saw  the  tidal 
wave  of  blood  that  overswept  his  face  and  his  ver\^  hands. 
She  saw  his  gaze  leap  Murielwards.  She  turned  her 
eyes  on  Muriel  and  saw  that  she  was  breathing  hard. 

The  old  lady's  training  as  a  duenna  had  taught  her  to 
recognize  such  crises  in  the  young.  She  had  been  young 
herself  once.  Her  shrewd  soul  cried:  "Oho!"  and, 
"This  will  never  do!" 

Without  delaying  she  sighed:  "Still,  I  suppose  it's  im- 
possible. We'll  have  to  get  along  \\ath  Kenneman  ^lis 
voyage.  Perhaps  Dr.  Worthing  would  come  with  us 
next  time." 

Dr.  Worthing  knew  that  Next  Time  is  the  alias  of  Not 
at  All.  His  courage  wrung  from  his  torture  a  dismal 
smile,  and  he  bowed  his  head.  When  he  looked  up  the 
cloudy  world  had  vanished  and  only  a  haunch  of  beef 

381 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

was  on  the  table,  and  Jacob  was  carving  it  with  a  knife 
of  steel,  and  carving  it  thin. 

The  rest  of  the  dinner  was  a  funeral  feast  to  him  and 
Muriel.  The  very  hint  of  the  voyage  they  might  have 
had  somehow  sufficed  to  carry  their  hearts  almost  as  far 
forward  together  as  if  they  had  actually  taken  it.  There 
was  httle  speech  between  them  except  the  conversation  of 
eyes,  yet  they  felt  already  in  a  sense  betrothed  after  a 
long  wooing. 

Mrs.  Schuyler  understood,  and  was  sorry  for  them  both, 
but  she  had  no  intention  of  allowing  the  impulsive  Muriel 
to  stray  any  farther  into  these  slumming  expeditions.  A 
love-affair  with  a  penniless  young  physician  would  be  a 
ludicrous  calamity,  and  the  sooner  it  was  prevented  the 
better. 

She  hardly  allowed  Worthing  to  finish  his  cigar  before 
she  arranged  with  the  sailing-master  to  appear  and  say 
that  it  was  time  to  send  off  the  launch  for  Dr.  Kenneman, 
and  was  anybody  going  ashore? 

Worthing  accepted  the  conge,  and  rose  with  an  ill- 
suppressed  sigh,  said  his  good-nights  to  the  elder  Schuy- 
lers,  and  put  out  his  hand  to  Muriel. 

"I'll  go  to  the  ladder  with  you,"  she  said;  and  Mrs. 
Schuyler  made  no  objection,  feeling  that  frustration  would 
only  enhance  their  emotion. 

"Put  a  scarf  about  you,  dear,"  she  said.  "There's  a 
heavy  fog  outside." 

And  so  there  was,  the  deck  and  stanchions  dripping, 
the  Hghts  all  haloed,  and  the  air  a  palpable  shimmer  in 
whose  fleece  everything  was  speedily  smothered. 

"It's  a  bit  thick,  isn't  it?"  said  Muriel  to  the  sailor 
who  guided  them  to  the  gangway. 

"It  is  that.  Miss.  We  look  like  a  triplet  of  'ysters  in 
a  milk  stoo." 

The  distance  to  the  side  of  the  boat  where  the  launch 
dung  in  a  mystery  of  sheen  and  shadow  'vas  hatefully 

382 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

short.  The  sailor  held  his  glimmering  lantern  close  to 
the  platform  of  the  little  stairway  set  sidewise  like  the 
stoops  in  Batavia  Street.  Perhaps  it  reminded  Muriel 
of  that  little  avenue  of  her  entrance  into  the  realm  of 
empty  pockets,  for  she  said: 

"Watch  my  poor  for  me  till  I  come  back,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Worthing,  and  put  unimaginable  fervor 
into  the  syllable. 

"And  write  me  often — and  long — ^always  in  care  of  the 
Credit  Lyonnais.     Will  you  remember?" 

Another  loaded  "Yes." 

"And  I'll  write  you  once  in  a  while  if  I  may." 

"If  you  may!"  he  groaned.  He  was  afraid  of  the  emo- 
tion struggling  at  his  throat.  He  caught  her  hand  and 
wrung  it,  afraid  .to  trust  his  voice  so  strangely  eager  to 
sob,  instead  of  to  say  "Good-by." 

He  groped  into  the  launch,  steadied  by  the  sailor's 
hand.  When  he  looked  up  he  could  not  see  her,  though 
the  air  was  iridescent.  But  he  heard  her  soft  "  Good-by," 
and  answered  it.  Then  the  motor  of  the  launch  began  its 
cynical  "tut  tut!  tut  tut!"  and  there  was  a  sense  of 
fishlike  swerve  and  dash.     She  was  gone. 

All  about  was  a  sound  of  squawling  fog-horns,  of  splash- 
ing ferry-boats,  thumping  tugs,  and  raucous  voices  as  of 
contemptuous  cloud-gods  mocking  the  folly  of  the  poor 
young  man  who  let  himself  love  the  daughter  of  the  ogre 
and  the  ogress  in  the  castle  above  the  clouds. 

Muriel  herself  was  lost  in  a  fog,  and  little  she  knew 
how  much  bewilderment  she  was  causing.  Dr.  Worthing's 
heart  was  not  the  only  one  she  was  leaving  in  disorder. 
Perry  Merithew  was  dreaming  of  her,  too.  It  was  not 
poverty  that  stood  in  his  way,  for  he  had  wealth,  if  he 
would  only  manage  it. 

But  while  Dr.  Worthing  was  uncertain  of  his  future 
and  rashly  planning  to  attach  himself  to  impossible 
balloons  of  hope,  Perry  Merithew  was  troubled  by  the 

383 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

very  definite  certainty  of  his  past,  and  was  resolving  to  cut 
it  loose  and  let  it  sink. 

He  was  even  now  on  his  way  to  cast  Maryla  Sokalska 
adrift. 

Muriel,  from  the  best  part  of  her  heart,  had  been  moved 
to  rescue  Maryla  from  the  slums  into  the  realm  of  beauty 
at  Dutilh's  dressmaking  shop.  She  had  transplanted  an 
orchid  from  a  jimgle  to  a  conservatory,  only  to  have  it 
plucked  and  worn  by  its  first  ruthless  admirer. 

There  are  restless  natures  that,  exhausting  every  vice 
in  turn,  come  round  at  last  to  being  good  as  a  wild  novelty 
worth  tr}dng.     They  degenerate,  as  it  were,  into  virtue. 

Perry  Merithew  was  aweary  of  selfish  and  indecorous 
women.  He  would  go  at  once  to  Maryla  Sokalska  and 
set  her  free — or  at  least  return  her  to  the  shop  where  he 
got  her  and  ask  that  she  be  credited  to  his  account. 

It  pleased  his  humor  to  say  to  himself  that  he  was 
doing  an  honorable  thing.  And,  of  course,  he  was, 
from  one  viewpoint.  But  how  would  poor  Maryla  view 
it?  She  was  of  a  dark  and  Oriental  blood  that  placed 
revenge  high  among  its  passions.  She  was  of  a  warm 
and  luxurious  blood  that  loved  slowly,  but  with  deep, 
burning  love,  and  hated  in  the  same  fashion.  She  had 
just  grown  used  to  her  sin,  and  was  comfortably  ensconced 
in  it  as  among  silken  cushions.  Her  answer  to  exile  would 
be  the  opposite  of  Rosalind's.  She  would  cry,  "What's 
set  free,  but  banished?" 

Muiiel  did  not  know  that  Maryla  owed  to  her  the  gain- 
ing of  Merithew's  interest,  and  Maryla  would  not  know 
that  she  owed  to  Mtuiel  the  loss  of  it. 

Like  a  kitten  that  has  romped  through  a  work-basket, 
Muriel  had  gone,  dragging  at  her  feet  various  skeins  and 
intertangling  them  until  by  and  by  the  thread  of  Perry 
Merithew's  life  was  so  knotted  in  with  the  others  that  it 
had  to  be  snipped  off  short  by  the  shears  of  fate. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

THE  latest  commodity  in  Perry  Merithew's  serial 
seraglio  was  basking,  like  a  sultana,  on  a  moonlit 
window-seat — the  ninth  window-seat,  counting  vertically 
in  an  apartment  on  the  upper  extreme  of  Central  Park 
West. 

Maryla  was  coiled  and  extended,  and  contented  as  a 
cobra  full  of  warm  milk.  On  the  knuckle-dimples  of  her 
soft  clasped  hands  her  softer  chin  reposed.  Her  hair 
poured  down  along  her  cheeks  and  about  her  shoulders 
like  a  thick  syrup,  giving  the  back  of  her  head  an  ophidian 
flatness. 

Perry  used  to  say  of  women:  "When  you  see  how  flat 
their  heads  are  in  the  back,  you  can't  blame  them  for 
anything.  In  fact,  you  ought  never  to  blame  them  or 
try  to  tame  them.  Just  enjoy  them  as  they  grow,  or  run 
away  from  them."  That  was  Perry's  opinion.  He  knew 
women  only  in  a  few  phases,  and  knew  those  phases  too 
well. 

By  thrusting  her  chin  forward  a  little  Maryla  could 
look  straight  down  the  windowed  precipice  to  the  street. 
But  she  preferred  to  stare  drowsily  into  the  polite  wilder- 
ness of  Central  Park,  for  when  she  looked  down  she  was 
filled  with  terror  lest  she  yield  to  those  mysterious  hands 
that  press  the  shoulder-blades  of  people  in  high  places 
with  Satanic  temptation  to  step  off. 

Maryla's  soul  had  yielded  to  such  an  urge,  but  her 
body  was  afraid  of  it.  Her  soul  had  stepped  off  the 
lofty  if  bleak  promontory  of  the  poor  but  honest,  and 
ceased  to  be  both  at  the  same  time.     But  she  had  felt  no 

38s 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

crash  of  ruin  as  she  had  been  warned  she  would  if  ever 
she  "fell."  The  w4ngs  the  tempter  promised  had  indeed 
borne  her  up.  She  was  afloat  in  the  buoyant  mid-air  of 
the  demi-monde. 

Part  of  Maryla's  mind  was  telling  her  how  wicked  she 
was  to  leave  that  noble  crag  of  innocence  for  ever.  Part 
of  her  mind  was  telling  her  how  foolish  she  would  have 
been  not  to. 

She  had  lost  the  high  privilege  of  being  the  virtuous 
daughter  of  the  half-starved  Sokalskis.  Her  poor  father 
had  helplessly  rewarded  and  honored  her  obedience  with 
unending  toil  at  a  sewing-machine,  with  harsh  words, 
poor  food,  coarse  clothes,  and  no  diversions  and  no  pa- 
tience for  the  love  of  beauty  and  fine  raiment  and  amor- 
ous exploration  that  youth  finds  necessary. 

Perry  Merithew  had  insulted  her  with  luxuries,  with 
flowers,  jewels,  plumes,  fashionable  gowns,  courtship,  ex- 
cursions, and  a  servant. 

He  had  left  -her  to  dine  alone  to-night,  but  she  dined 
well  upon  chicken  roasted  by  a  black  Virginienne,  and 
upon  sweet-potatoes  grilled,  and  upon  ice-cream  imported 
from  the  comer.  There  is  a  sufficing  companionship  in 
good  food  pleasantly  served.  And  now  there  was  luxury 
in  reclining  at  ease  and  watching  the  huge  gilt  moon 
dwindle  and  silver  as  it  climbed.  There  was  a  kind  of 
conversation  in  the  amiable  breeze  lifting  her  hair  as 
with  a  lover's  fingers,  and  fluttering  the  silken  tissue  of 
her  peignoir  and  the  ruffles  of  her  expensive  linenwear. 

She  was  so  completely  cozy  that  she  blessed  the  name 
of  her  destroyer,  and  mused  that  if  this  it  was  to  be 
ruined,  how  false  were  the  pretenses  of  sanctity. 

The  late  sewing-machinist  could  hardly  believe  that  she 
was  not  dreaming.  To  make  sure  that  she  was  awake 
she  struck  her  palms  on  the  rough  stone  of  the  window- 
sill  and  clutched  in  her  fingers  the  string  of  imitation 
pearls  Perry  had  given  her.  She  ran  the  pearls  through 
her  fingers  like  a  kind  of  infernal  rosary. 

386 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

The  only  flaw  in  her  contentment  was  Perry's  absence. 
He  was  away  from  her  most  of  the  time.  At  first  she  had 
been  so  glad  of  idleness  after  her  youth-long  labor,  that 
she  had  never  complained  to  him  of  his  neglect.  She  had 
made  an  industry  of  telling  over  to  herself  the  things  she 
had  escaped,  and  of  appreciating  the  things  she  had 
gained,  including  the  furniture,  the  rugs,  the  pictures. 
She  did  not  know  enough  to  know  how  tawdry  they  were. 

But  she  had  soon  begim  to  miss  Perry  when  he  was 
away.  She  had  learned  his  name  by  accident  when  it 
shpped  from  him,  but  it  meant  to  her  nothing  of  what 
it  meant  to  other  New-Yorkers.  She  had  not  dreamed 
that  he  was  married.  She  supposed  him  rich,  and  he  told 
her  nothing  of  his  financial  worries  or  his  other  entangle- 
ments. She  had  not  annoyed  him  with  exactions  as 
Aphra  Shaler  had  done.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  brevity 
of  such  alliances,  as  Aphra  Shaler  did. 

Last  night  Perry  had  taken  her  to  the  gaudy  restaurant 
where  the  funny  little  red-headed  woman  sang.  He  had. 
left  Maryla  and  danced  with  that  girl,  and  had  sat  at  her 
table  so  absorbed  in  what  he  was  being  told,  that  Maryla 
felt  herself  in  the  way. 

She  had  resolved  never  to  be  an  encumbrance  on  the 
kind  gentleman.  So  she  slipped  away  and  walked  back 
to  the  nest  he  had  established  her  in.  If  he  wanted  to 
see  her  he  knew  where  he  had  put  her.  He  had  not 
sought  her. 

The  day  had  gone  by  with  its  flock  of  hours,  one  after 
one.  Perry  had  sent  no  word,  no  flowers,  no  box  of 
candy.  Maryla  was  rebuking  herself  for  a  hint  of  re- 
sentment. This  was  heinous  ingratitude.  Yet  she  was 
amazed  at  the  new  strength  of  loneliness  that  gnawed 
at  her  like  a  hunger. 

She  heard  a  motor-horn  in  the  street,  and  put  her  head 
forward  so  eagerly  that  she  felt  herself  slipping  over  the 
brink.  She  caught  herself  back  in  a  panic  of  fright,  and 
rolled  away  from  the  perilous  sill. 

387 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

It  was  not  Perry's  car.  Recovering  her  composure, 
Maryla  tried  to  take  comfort  from  the  landscape  and 
the  cushions  and  the  woven  cream  of  the  curtains.  She 
uncoiled  and  stretched  and  yawned  with  all  her  might 
and  with  thorougliness.  She  walked  about  the  apart- 
ment, luxuriating  in  it.  It  was  all  Eden  in  fotir  rooms 
and  a  bath.  She  rubbed  a  velvety  portiere  against  her 
cheek.  She  stroked  the  glossy  upholstery  of  the  best 
chair.  She  snapped  the  electric  light  on  and  off;  it  was 
a  new  toy.  She  patted  the  little  piano  as  if  it  were  a 
pony.  She  tried  to  poke  out  a  tune  with  one  finger — the 
tune  that  Red  Ida  had  sung,  the  one  called,  "Treat  her 
like  a  baby."  She  fell  into  ludicrous  blunders  that  made 
her  laugh.  Then  she  stimibled  into  an  ancient  Jewish 
melody  that  made  her  sad.  She  tried  to  sing  it,  but  the 
index-finger  accompaniment  jarred  her  voice  off  the  notes. 
She  quit  the  piano  and  paced  the  floor  with  shut  eyes, 
chanting  like  another  Miriam. 

By  and  by  she  was  aware  that  some  one  was  near. 
She  stopped  short  and,  turning,  saw  the  black  face  and 
shining  eyes  of  the  cook  Perry  had  installed  for  her. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Martha;   I  did  not  hear  you." 

"But  ah  hud  you,  honey.  Ah  was  listenin'  at  you  wif 
bofe  years.  Keep  right  awn  singin';  it's  a  beautiful 
sawng." 

"It  should  be  if  I  had  the  voice  to  sing." 

"You  sing  better'n  any  mawkin'-bud.  But,  say,  what 
dat  language  you  sing?    Ahrish.?" 

"No,  no;   it  is  old  Hebrew  song — 'Sholem  Aleichem.'" 

"Sholem  a-who-Kem?" 

"It  means  'Peace  be  with  you.'  At  home  we  did  sing 
it  Sabbaths,  in  the  eveninks  when  we  have  been  by  the 
temple.  My  father  did  sing  and  all  the  whole  femmily." 
She  sighed.  "I  shall  not  be  by  my  home  on  New- Year's 
day." 

"  How  can  you  tell,  chile.''  New-Year's  ain't  doo  fo'  fo' 
months." 

388 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Our  New -Year's  comes  very  soon  —  our  Roshha- 
shonah.  I  did  buy  post-carts  already  to  send  my  people. 
Look." 

She  ran  to  fetch  a  batch  of  pasteboard  atrocities.  It 
was  wonderful  that  anything  could  be  made  so  ugly  for 
so  little  money. 

One  of  the  cards  framed  a  bit  of  white  silk  on  which 
a  cluster  of  dismal  flowers  was  embroidered  in  uncon- 
genial colors,  over  a  Hebrew  motto  worked  in  lavender 
floss.  On  another  was  a  gold  wheelbarrow  loaded  with 
pansies  as  big  as  the  wheel,  and  with  huge  forget-me-nots 
in  blue-green  and  purple,  not  to  mention  two  highly  em- 
bossed white  birds  sprinkled  with  gilt  tinsel. 

The  cards  delighted  Martha's  Ethiopian  ideals  of  art 
and  Maryla's  Oriental  sense  of  grandeur. 

The  simplest  of  the  cards  contained  a  spray  of  violets 
and  a  greeting  in  Hebrew,  with  these  graceful  verses  in 
English: 

Sorry  I'm  not  with  you  to-day 

To  utter  my  New- Year's  Greetings; 

But  hope  ere  twelve  months  pass  away 
You  and  I  will  be  meeting. 

Maryla  read  this  very  dubious  compliment  as  if  it  were 
a  classic  ode,  and  tears  sciuried  from  her  eyes  unex- 
pectedly and  spattered  the  cards.  She  made  haste  to 
dry  them  with  her  handkerchief  lest  they  stain  and  spoil 
the  design. 

Maryla  smiled  to  think  how  ecstatically  her  mother  and 
her  little  fat  sister,  Dosia,  would  shriek  over  these  beauti- 
ful things.  Maryla  had  not  gone  home  since  she  left  off 
working  at  Dutilh's.  She  had  not  dared  to  go  home  and 
confront  her  father's  eyes.  She  knew  that  in  his  eyes  the 
beauty  of  her  life  would  be  hideous.     He  was  very  strict. 

But  she  had  sent  many  presents  home — things  to  wear, 
to  eat,  to  adorn  oneself  with;  and  not  only  to  her  mother 
and  sister,  but  to  her  father,  and  even  a  trinket  to  Pasin- 

389 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

sky,  the  boarder,  her  first  admirer.  These  gifts  were 
atonements,  peace-offerings  against  the  day  she  should 
venture  back. 

When  her  conscience  revolted  against  her  contentment, 
the  best  anesthetic  she  could  find  for  it  was  the  fact 
that  her  wickedness  enabled  her  to  send  into  that  doleful 
home  of  hers  things  of  beauty  that  otherwise  would  be 
unknown  there.  She  used  the  word  "wickedness"  in 
imaginary  quotation-marks,  for  she  could  not  see  any- 
thing harsh  or  hateful  in  the  gentle  graces  of  her  new  life. 

The  door-bell  rang.  It  startled  her.  It  would  not  be 
Pern,'- — for  he  had  his  own  key.  A  wild  thought  thrilled 
her  that  it  might  be  her  father  come  to  punish  her,  to 
destroy  her  for  her  offense  against  him.  She  had  sent 
her  address  with  her  last  budget  of  gifts,  hoping  to  get 
back  a  letter  of  thanks  at  least.  What  if  she  had  brought 
his  wrath  about  her  head?  She  was  afraid  of  him  with 
the  loving  terror  of  a  dog. 

Martha  answered  the  bell  and  shuffled  back  to  say: 
"It's  a — a  ge'man;  well,  not  'zackly  a  ge'man,  neither. 
He  allowed  his  name  was — er — er — somefin'  endin'  in 
'insky.'" 

"Not  Balinsky,  or  Pasinsky?" 

"I  d'know,  honey.  All  dem  'inskies'  soun'  alike  to 
me." 

"Well,  ask  him  he  should  come  in." 

Maryla  stole  behind  one  of  the  curtains  and  watched 
with  amusement  the  entrance  of  the  family's  lone  star 
boarder. 

Pasinsky  edged  in  timidly  and  stared  about  the  little 
flat  as  if  it  were  a  great  hotel.  Finding  himself  alone, 
he  took  a  portiere  in  his  hands,  folded  it,  and  expertly 
snapped  it  to  test  its  fabric.  He  carried  on  one  arm  one 
of  the  black  leather  market-bags  they  use  in  Allen  Street. 
It  was  bulging  full. 

Maryla  was  so  flattered  by  the  awe  on  Pasinsky's  face 
that  ^e  giggled  and  betrayed  her  hiding-place.    Pasinsky's 

390 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

low,  broad  derby  hat  rested  on  his  ears.  He  scraped  it 
off  with  humility.  She  ran  out  and  caught  both  of  his 
hands  in  hers,  babbling: 

"Oh,  but  I  am  gled  to  see  you,  Henryk.  How  are  j^ou ? 
You  have  been  well,  yes ?  And  how  is  mother?  And  little 
Dosia,  is  she  happy?  And  papa,  still  well?  And  grand- 
father, does  he  cough  yet  ?  Oh,  it  is  so  good  to  see  some- 
body! You  are  the  only  one  I  see  since — since  I  did  go 
away.  The  canary-beerd  sings  good,  yes?  Did  they  get 
the  money  I  sent?  What  did  they  buy?  Dosia,  did  she 
like  the  pretty  dress  and  the  hair-ribbons?" 

She  stopped  laughing  when  she  saw  how  pitiful  was  his 
smile  and  how  big  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 

"You  don't  speak,  Henryk?" 

"  Ach,  Maryla,  you  esk  so  many  kvestions.  I  have  only 
one  to  esk.     Are  you — ^was  you — yet  heppy?" 

"Happy?  I  am  in  heaven.  Sit  down  once."  She 
motioned  him  to  a  chair  and  flimg  herself  on  the  window- 
seat  with  such  carelessness  that  one  of  her  slippers  fell 
off.  Pasinsky  bent  to  pick  it  up,  but  she  checked  him 
with  a  gesture.  Then  she  pressed  a  button  in  the  wall, 
and  in  a  moment  Martha  was  at  the  door. 

"Did  you  ring,  missy?" 

"Yes,"  said  Maryla,  with  a  majestic  yawn.  "Peeck 
up  my  sleeper,  pleasse." 

"  Yas5Mm.'"  said  Martha,  wondering  at  the  improvement 
in  Maryla's  mind.  She  was  chuckling  like  a  brook  as  she 
fitted  the  slipper  on  Maryla's  foot.  Then  Maryla  mo- 
tioned her  out  imperiously,  and  Martha  backed  away  like 
a  slave  of  Cleopatra's,  except  for  her  chuckles.  She 
understood  that  Maryla  was  trying  to  impress  her  visitor, 
and  she  was  in  perfect  sympathy.  Through  the  closed 
door  came  her  loud  yah-hahs. 

"You  see,"  Maryla  said,  with  the  manner  of  a  boastful 
child.     "And  you  ask  am  I  happy!" 

"It  is  not  the  same  like  your  own  home,"  Pasinsky 
mimibled. 

391 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"I  should  say  not.  But  isn't  it  fi-ine?  And  yet, 
Henryk,  believe  me,  sometimes  I  get  such  a  homesick- 
ness I  want  to  go  back.  Honest!  Would  you  believe 
me?" 

"If  only  you  did  never  vent  away!"  he  sighed. 

She  caught  his  meaning,  and  the  red  flashed  up  her 
throat  and  over  her  cheeks  so  hotly  that  it  seemed  to 
blind  her.  She  changed  the  subject  at  once,  "What  is 
it  you  got  in  that  beg — presents  for  me?" 

This  threw  him  into  a  panic,  and  he  said:  "Presents 
I  got.     Yes,  I  got  presents  for  you." 

She  ran  and,  seizing  the  bag,  opened  it  and  poured  on 
the  floor  the  gifts  she  had  sent  home,  all  of  them,  even 
the  money.  She  sank  down  by  them,  and  now  a  snow- 
white  blush  overran  her  face  even  to  the  lips. 

"My  presents!  My  presents!"  she  moaned.  "But 
for  why?" 

"I  don't  vant  to  told  you." 

"Yes,  yes,  you  got  to!" 

"Veil,  he  says — your  f adder — not  me!  I  dun't  said  it 
— your  fadder  says — ^you  did  buyed  dese  t'inks  vit  de 
vages  of — of — " 

"Sin?"  She  groaned  that  hateful  word — that  other 
people's  word. 

Pasinsky  nodded  and  turned  his  eyes  away  as  from  a 
nakedness.  And  indeed  she  felt  stripped  of  her  fine  rai- 
ment and  fallen  in  £  heap.  The  floor  where  she  huddled 
was  the  foot  of  the  cliff.  The  upholding  wings  of  JLucif or 
had  closed  beneath  her  at  last  and  let  her  crash.  She 
was  so  despicable  that  her  gifts  were  insults,  her  atone- 
ments were  swept  from  the  altar  with  disdain. 

Pasinsky  made  haste  to  finish  his  dismal  business.  He 
spoke  as  if  he  were  the  guilty  one  making  the  confession, 
instead  of  the  herald  of  the  condemning  judge. 

"I  dun't  like  sayink  it,  Maryla — you  know  I  dun't 
like — but  your  fadder  makes  me  promise  to  told  you,  how 
de  Sokalskis  dey  are  poor  and  -^^^oik  hart,  and  are  grindet 

302 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

into  de  dost,  but  not  yet — ^not  yet  vill  dey  take  moneysh 
from  de — de  shame  of  a  daughter  of  Israel." 

Maryla  took  the  judgment  upon  her  bent  neck.  There 
was  nothing  to  answer  that  her  father  or  his  messenger 
could  understand.  A-Ien  did  not  need  pretty  things  and 
caresses,  and  tenderness,  especially  not  such  men  as  her 
father,  who  found  his  luxury  in  economy,  made  a  revel 
over  a  penny  saved  and  a  funeral  over  anj^hing  it  bought. 

She  could  not  understand  the  glory  of  the  malekind 
that  tries  to  make  and  keep  a  home,  not  only  for  to-day's 
comfort,  but  against  to-morrow's  menace;  the  spirit 
that  takes  pride  in  thrift,  and  finds  more  beauty  in  rags 
receipted  for  than  in  mortgaged  silks  that  belong  to  some 
cheated  creditor. 

Maryla  stared  at  the  rejected  heap  of  graces,  for  which 
she  had  exchanged  the  little  ugly  handful  of  bills  and 
coins  that  Perry  Merithew  had  tossed  on  the  table  for 
her  to  squander. 

Her  idle  hand  lifted  a  gorgeous  waist  she  had  bought 
for  her  mother;  a  coquettish  hat  for  Dosia  with  a  joyous 
feather  on  it;  a  wheel  of  scarlet  ribbons  for  Dosia 's  hair. 
Her  only  answer  to  Pasinsky's  death-warrant  was  at  last 
a  sorrowful  question: 

"Papa  had  a  right  to  leave  poor  Miitterchen  her  waist — 
and  Dosia — what  did  Dosia  say?" 

"It  was  soch  a  cryink,  dey  say  not  moch." 

Maryla  stared  at  the  spoils  of  her  dalliance  and  sighed: 
"It  is  so  ogly  to  be  poor!  It  is  so  shameful  ogly  to  be 
poor!"  After  a  time  she  asked,  without  looking  up, 
"Henryk,  do  you — do  you  think  of  me  what  my  f adder 
thinks?" 

Pasinsky  spun  his  hideous  derby  round  and  round  as 
he  answered:  "Maryla,  I  am  all  a  time  dreamink.  Your 
fadder  says  I  am  a  loafer,  but  me,  I  vant  it  all  people 
should  be  heppy  and  have  deir  vish,  and  make  alvays 
laughink.  Sometimes  I  t'ink  I  dun't  care  how  somebody 
gets  a  heppiness  choost  so  dey  get  it.  And  more  as  avery- 
13  393 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

body  in  de  voilt  it  iss  you,  Maryla,  I  vant  it  should 
get  a  heppiness." 

She  raised  brimming  eyes  of  gratitude.  He  was  a 
Perry  Merithew  in  shoddy,  the  woman-idolator  that  goes 
proudly  bankrupt  to  prettify  pretty  creatures,  and  takes 
his  pay  in  their  increased  prestige  and  their  selfish  en- 
hancement. 

"You  are  heppy,  yes?"  he  pleaded. 

"I  was,"  she  sighed. 

"He  loafs  you?" 

Blushes  were  set  in  her  cheeks  like  sudden  roses  and 
the  shame  that  cast  her  eyes  down  was  a  delicious  shame. 
She  nodded.  Pasinsky  asked  the  question  that  changed 
the  roses  to  another  red  and  weighted  the  eyeHds  heavier. 

"For  why  dun't  you  marry  yourselluf s ?" 

It  was  a  question  Maryla  had  often  asked  her  own 
heart,  but  never  her  lover.  There  was  a  sacredness  about 
her  happiness  that  made  it  honest  to  her,  and  she  longed 
for  Perry  to  make  it  honest  to  the  world.  He  had  told 
her  that  they  would  live  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown;  this 
spurious  title  was  all  he  had  granted  her,  and  it  was  for 
the  janitor's  sake.  But  her  bliss  was  too  terribly  great 
to  imperil  by  any  demands.  She  had  cherished  a  foolish 
trust  that  if  she  were  devoted  enough,  and  patient  and 
cheerful  enough,  she  might  make  herself  indispensable  to 
Perry. 

Pasinsky's  question  was  inopportune,  premature,  in- 
convenient, and  therefore  impertinent.  She  resented  it 
with  the  swift  anger  of  guilt,  and  rose  against  him. 

"For  why  do  you  think  we  are  not  married?" 

Pasinsky  felt  sorry  that  she  shoiild  have  to  try  to  lie 
out  of  it;  he  shook  his  head  mercifully.  "Ach,  Maryla, 
Maryla,  you  should  come  home  once!" 

He  took  her  hands  in  his,  and  his  tolerance  broke  her. 
She  went  into  his  arms  and  wept.  He  was  all  the  family 
she  had. 

There  Perry  Merithew  f  oimd  her  when  he  let  himself  in 

394 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

with  his  latch-key.  They  did  not  hear  him.  He  stared 
at  them  in  anger,  then  in  a  more  insulting  amusement. 
Seeing  what  manner  of  man  Pasinsky  was,  the  exquisite 
Perry  realized  the  quaHty  of  Maryla's  origin.  He  sneered 
less  at  her  than  at  himself.  He  was  ashamed  not  of  his 
sin,  but  of  his  partner  in  it. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

PERRY  laughed  softly,  and  Maryla,  hearing  him, 
started  from  Pasinsky's  embrace  and  stared  at  him. 
Her  terror  lest  he  misunderstand  and  be  jealous  gave 
way  to  a  greater  terror,  for  she  understood  instantly  the 
scornful  amusement  on  his  face.  All  she  could  say  was 
a  stammering: 

"How — how  do  you  do?  You  should  meet  Mr. 
Pasinsky  Mr. — Brown." 

Pasinsky's  first  glance  gave  him  Perry's  measure.  He 
shuddered  for  Maryla,  and  faltered,  "I  am  pleased  to 
meet  your  ackvaintimce." 

Neither  man  offered  the  other  his  hand.  Their  prides 
were  equal,  unless  Pasinsky  were  the  more  contemptuous. 

Maryla  explained:  "Mr.  Pasinsky  is  an  old  friend.  He 
lives  by  our  house." 

Perry  nodded  and  stepped  away  from  the  door,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "Get  out  quietly!" 

Pasinsky  realized  his  meaning  and  could  have  killed  him 
if  Maryla's  eyes  had  not  been  so  full  of  worship.  So  he 
obeyed,  mimibling:  "I  gotta  go  now.  Goot-by,  Maryla. 
Goot-by,  Meesteh — Meesteh — Brown?" 

"Good  night,"  said  Perry. 

Maryla  went  to  the  door  with  Pasinsky.  When  she 
came  back  Perry  was  seated  in  a  chair  with  his  cane 
athwart  his  crossed  knees,  and  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head.  It  was  as  if  he  had  put  up  a  barrier  against  the 
usual  rapture  of  her  greeting.  She  closed  the  door  and 
fell  back  against  it,  waiting  for  him  to  say  something. 

He  said,  "And  who's  all  that?" 

"He  is  a  friend  of  my  people  like  I  told  you."' 
396 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Perry  nodded  toward  the  heap  on  the  floor.  "And 
what's   all   that?" 

Maryla  told  the  truth.  "I  did  send  home  some  pres- 
ents to  my  people.     My  f adder  would  not  keep  them." 

"And  why  not.?" 

It  was  not  easy  for  her,  but  she  confessed,  "He  thinks 
I  should  not  ought  to  be  here." 

To  her  dismay.  Perry's  comment  was  brusque:  "I 
agree  with  him." 

It  was  like  a  fist  against  her  breast.  She  recoiled  in 
pain.  Perry  hated  his  task,  but  he  had  found  that  the 
best  way  to  be  rid  of  mistresses  was  to  ignore  their  senti- 
mental torments  and  finish  the  business  in  a  business-like 
way,  short  and  sharp: 

"Maryla,  I've  got  bad  news." 

She  hurried  to  a  chair  and  sank  into  it  as  if  to  sit  down 
before  the  blow  could  knock  her  down. 

He  said:  "Maryla,  I'm  going  to — I've  got  to  go  abroad 
— to  Etu-ope."  She  was  so  distressed  that  he  softened  the 
blow  with  a  compassionate  lie.  "I've  got  to  go — on 
business.  I — I'm  sorry,  but  I've  got  to  go.  It's  on  busi- 
ness— important  business.     I'm  sorry." 

"You  come  soon  beck?"  she  parleyed,  knowing  that  the 
end  had  come. 

"Er — ^no — ^not  for  a  long  time.  I  really  don't  know 
when — but  not  for  some  time." 

She  gave  him  every  opportunity  to  help  her.  "I  will 
wait." 

"You'd  better  not,"  he  went  on,  hating  her  meekness. 
"You  can  stay  here  till  you  make  your  plans.  I  had  to 
take  a  lease  for  four  months.  You  might  as  well  live 
here.  I'll  leave  you  some  money — not  as  much  as  I'd 
like,  for  I'm  hard  up — but  some  money." 

"I  thenk  you,  no,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head. 

He  thought  of  what  an  indemnity  Aphra  Shaler  would 
have  demanded,  and  he  urged:  "Oh,  I  insist.  It's  only 
fair  to  you." 

397 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Only  fair  to  me!"  she  echoed  with  a  sick  smile.  She 
wanted  to  scream.  She  wanted  to  attack  him  with  a 
frenzy  of  hate  or  of  love;   she  could  not  tell  which. 

But  she  was  slow  in  ever3rthing;  serene  in  sin,  and  de- 
mure in  her  first  wrath.  She  had  only  her  pride  to  govern 
her  swirl  of  thoughts,  and  her  pride  commanded  her  to 
take  no  charity  from  this  man,  to  quit  on  equal  terms. 
She  set  her  chin  high  on  a  tortured  throat,  and  said: 

"  Don't  worry  about  me.     I  go.     I  go." 

From  her  finger  she  twisted  the  ring  he  had  bought 
her — ^a  gorgeous  Montana  diamond.  From  her  throat 
she  unclasped  the  necklace  of  reconstructed  pearls.  It 
was  hard  to  imlock.  That  Httle  annoyance  almost  wrecked 
her  self-control.  She  came  near  tearing  it  to  pieces  in 
her  impatience. 

She  laid  all  his  jewelry  on  the  table.  Perry  glared  at 
it,  blushing  at  its  cheapness  and  at  its  return.  He  groped 
futilely  for  words. 

She  went  into  the  bedroom  and  got  out  the  little  black 
gown  she  had  worn  from  Dutilh's  shop,  the  frock  she 
had  on  in  Fort  Washington  Park.  She  unshipped  the 
top  hook  of  the  waist  she  had  bought  with  Perry's  money; 
then  remembering,  she  drew  the  heavy  portieres  that 
were  the  only  door. 

The  lonely  closing  of  those  funereal  hangings  shamed 
Perry  and  inclined  him  to  remorse.  He  felt  that  he  must 
deal  more  gently  with  Maryla.  He  must  plead  with  her 
not  to  be  hurt,  not  to  refuse  to  keep  his  money. 

He  parted  the  curtains  and  went  in  where  she  was, 
siuprising  her  between  the  two  costimies.  She  was  very, 
very  pretty  in  a  short,  white,  blue-ribboned  affair.  He 
thought  that  there  was  no  need  to  hasten  her  eviction 
from  his  life. 

He  set  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  drew  her  close, 
and  murmured,  "Now,  little  Just  Only  Maryla,  you 
mustn't." 

But  she  felt  herself  already  divorced  from  him.     He 

398 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

had  lost  the  right  to  see  her.  His  caress  was  a  familiarity. 
With  a  spasm  of  revulsion  and  a  sound  like  a  mad  dog's 
cry  she  writhed  away  and  struck  him  backward  in  the 
face.  Her  taloned  fingers  gouged  his  cheek  and  brought 
blood  to  his  torn  lips.  He  felt  the  loathing  in  her  wrath 
and  he  knew  that  he  would  have  scars  to  explain,  and  he 
snarled: 

"You  damned  little  beast!" 

But  she  glared  at  him  murderously  and  laughed  uglily: 
"Huh-huh!   huh-huh!" 

He  put  his  handkerchief  to  his  mouth  and  leaned  for- 
ward in  unwonted  gawkiness  lest  the  blood  drip  on  his 
gray  plaid  coat.  Then  he  went  into  the  bath-room  and 
slapped  cold  water  on  his  wounds,  while  Maryla  hastily 
stepped  into  her  old  skirt  and  drew  the  frock  up  over 
her  shotdders  and  fastened  it,  and  put  her  hat  on. 

Maryla  was  so  bewildered  with  dismay  that  she  put 
into  her  hat  the  hat-pin  he  had  bought  for  her  one  day — 
an  amethyst-headed  hat-pin,  w4th  the  amethyst  held  in  a 
gilded  claw.  She  forgot  that  it  was  his  purchase.  It 
was  the  only  jewelry  he  had  bought  her  that  she  carried 
with  her  when  she  hurried  through  the  curtains  and  out 
of.  the  door.  She  was  afraid  to  meet  the  eye  of  the 
sophisticated  elevator-boy,  and  she  trotted  down  the  nine 
flights  of  stairs  winding  about  the  shaft. 

It  seemed  that  the  descent  would  lead  her  on  down 
into  sheol,  but  at  last  she  reached  the  ground  floor  and 
walked  out  of  the  ornate  portal  of  her  gingerbread  palace 
to  the  pavement.  She  would  have  collided  with  the 
passers-by  if  they  had  not  taken  pains  to  avoid  her.  She 
moved  straight  across  the  wide  street.  A  loping  horse 
drawing  a  deli  very- wagon  reared  and  swerved,  or  he  would 
have  trampled  her.  The  driver  of  a  scudding  taxicab 
turned  smartly  aside  and  almost  collided  with  another, 
or  he  would  have  struck  her  down.  The  motormen  of  a 
north-boimd  street-car  and  a  south-bound  street-car  fltmg 

399 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

themselves  furiously  on  their  brakes  or  the  one  would  have 
smitten  her  dead  and  hurled  her  body  into  the  guard  of 
the  other.  She  heard  neither  their  yells  of  warning  nor 
their  jeers  of  revilement. 

She  marched  in  an  aisle  of  safety  as  the  IsraeHtes  fled 
between  the  reverted  waves  of  the  Red  Sea.  She  blun- 
dered against  the  low  Park  wall,  then  turned  south  and 
kept  one  hand  on  it  till  she  foimd  a  gate. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

SHE  marched  through  the  thicker  night  of  the  wind- 
ing roads.  She  paused  to  rest  on  the  benches  now 
and  then,  but  her  mood  was  onward,  and  she  trudged  the 
miles  to  the  Plaza.  All  about  her  were  vague  couples 
making  love.  Their  embraces  disgusted  her.  The  fog 
that  was  so  dense  on  the  Bay,  where  Dr.  Worthing  was 
bidding  good-by  to  Muriel  Schuyler,  was  here  no  more 
than  a  thin  white  smoke  softening  the  lights  into  half- 
tone and  blurring  the  shadows. 

She  plodded  down  Fifth  Avenue,  past  the  boarded-up 
palaces,  the  locked-up  churches,  the  dark-windowed  shops, 
through  all  the  architectural  strata  down  to  the  lower 
depths  below  Washington  Square.  She  turned  east.  wShe 
dragged  herself  along  like  a  Belgian  refugee  fleeing  from 
the  destruction  of  her  little  Louvain  to  the  miserable 
charity  of  overcrowded  slums. 

She  was  so  lonely  and  so  weary  that  the  thought  of 
home  had  grown  as  sweet  to  her  as  paradise.  She  climbed 
the  stairs  like  a  pilgrim  toiling  the  last  few  steps  to  heaven. 
She  foresaw  a  rapturous  welcome.  Her  own  people  be- 
came the  very  s>Tnbols  of  love  and  of  welcome. 

She  paused  at  the  door  to  hear  the  familiar  music  of 
the  sewing-machines,  the  huge  crickets  of  her  hearthless 
home.  She  did  not  think  of  knocking,  for  it  was  her  home. 
She  opened  the  door  and  stepped  in.  No  one  heard  her 
over  the  low  rumor  of  the  machines.  Her  grandfather, 
still  seeming  to  stitch  his  white  beard  into  the  cloth,  saw 
her  and  tried  to  speak,  but  his  coughing  choked  him 
and  nobody  heeded  his  eternal  racket. 

In  the  stifling  air,  in  the  stinted  light,  they  were  all 
401 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

sewing;  treadling  away  at  their  same  old  everlasting, 
ever-hateful  bicycle  race.  Fond  as  she  was  of  them  all, 
hungry  as  she  was  to  be  at  home,  she  was  hit  in  the  face 
by  the  hard  reality.  She  could  not  imagine  beauty  or 
comfort  here  where  both  had  starved.  The  dream-walk 
was  over,  and  the  truth  was  worse  than  the  nightmare. 
Yet  this  was  her  one  haven,  and  the  fat  old  slave  at  the 
farthest  machine  was  all  the  mother  she  had  ever  had. 
And  the  need  of  sheltering  arms  wrung  from  her  the  cry, 
"Mamma!" 

All  the  machines  stopped.  Three  of  the  weary  riders 
turned  to  stare  with  superstitious  dread.  Big  little  Dosia 
was  the  first  to  understand.  She  whirled  and  ran  to 
Maryla  with  her  arms  outstretched.  After  her  waddled 
her  mother,  shrieking  with  joy.  Pasinsky  rose  and  stood 
by  his  machine. 

Adam  alone  did  not  rise.  He  had  not  even  turned  his 
head.  He  knew  that  voice.  He  had  heard  it  when  this 
Jezebel  of  a  daughter  was  a  tiny  child  grasping  at  her 
mother's  yoimg  breast.  She  used  to  thrust  her  littlf* 
hand  into  his  beard  and  cling  to  a  fistful  of  it  till  the  tear-^ 
came  to  his  eyes.  He  could  imagine  back  those  old 
scenes,  but  also,  and  all  too  vividly,  he  could  imagine  his 
child  in  the  arms  of  the  man  that  had  desecrated  her. 

Adam  Sokalski  was  of  those  who  have  such  horror  of 
defilement  that  when  they  see  a  chalice  soiled  they  will 
not  cleanse  it  nor  reclaim  it;  they  blame  it  for  its  own 
misfortune  and  hurl  it  out  of  sight  or  destroy  it. 

Adam  had  loved  Maryla  well,  and  hoped  that  she  would 
be  a  good  daughter  till  she  became  a  good  wife  and  a  good 
mother  and  a  good  grandmother,  and  so  on  to  a  good 
fiuieral.  She  had  thrown  his  hopes  into  the  muck  of  the 
world.     He  longed  to  be  rid  of  her. 

When  Dosia  and  Rosa  had  crushed  and  smothered 
Maryla  with  their  welcome,  they  turned  to  see  Adam 
bowed  across  his  machine,  .his  fierce  hands  clenched  in 

402 


-     EMPTY    POCKETS 

his  beard.     His  back  was  arched  Hke  Atlas's  under  the 
load  of  the  heavy  world. 

Rosa  led  Maryla  forward  timidly,  murmuring,  "Papa 
— papa — Maryla  iss  come  beck!" 

"I  dun't  know  no  Maryla." 

*'Ach,  papa!"  Rosa  pleaded.     "Pleass!    Pleass!" 

*'Once  I  had  a  Maryla,  but  she  is  voisser  as  dett  al- 
retty.    A  cholera  on  the  Goy  vat  made  her  so." 

"Ja,  ja,  on  him,  but  not  on  Maryla." 

"An  Maryla  auch!  Und  more  yet.  He  vas  only  a 
Chreestian,  but  she  knowed.  Comes  she  here,  I  toin  her 
owit.     I  make  the  door  shut  in  her  face." 

Maryla,  with  a  grimace  of  despair,  tried  to  put  away 
the  clutching  hands  of  her  mother  and  go.  But  Rosa 
held  her  fast,  imploring: 

"Nu,  nu!    Papa!  papa!    Toin  around  once.     Look!" 

Adam  rose  ominously,  turned  slowly,  stared  through 
fanatic  eyes.  "Who  iss  it?  I  dun't  know  who  iss  it. 
Ach,  ja,  now  I  know.  It  iss  dot  fine  Chreestian  lady. 
Vat  makes  she  here?     She  iss  in  de  wrong  ho'se." 

Pasinsky  put  out  his  hand.  "Meester  Sokalski,  I  esk 
you — I  esk  you."  Adam  knocked  his  hand  away.  Pasin- 
sky appealed  to  his  penury  in  crafty  words.  "You 
should  not  sendet  her  avay.  She  sews  good.  She  makes 
moch  money.     Vinter  comes  soon  now." 

Adam  retorted,  with  nausea:  "She  makes  more  money 
by — by — "  Then  he  broke.  "Ach  weh!  weh!  weh!  mine 
baby  is  dett!" 

He  wept  loudly,  winding  his  arms  about  his  head  like 
sackcloth. 

Rosa  and  Dosia  ran  to  him,  plied  him  with  prayers  to 
keep  her  home,  to  forgive  her.  Maryla  did  not  speak. 
She  stared  at  her  father,  and  through  him  at  life  and  its 
cruelty.  The  clay  in  Adam's  heart  ached  to  take  her  back, 
but  the  patriarchal  spirit  of  Mosaic  bookkeeping  ab- 
horred such  easy  cancellation  of  debt.  Yet  at  length  he 
submitted. 

403 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"All  right.  Ve  keep  her.  But  dun't  forgot,  Maryla, 
everybody  knows  vot  you  ditt.  Your  name  is  a  hissink 
in  Ollen  Street.  You  vill  be  call  'dot  Chreestian  vomans.' 
It  is  de  most  ponishment  to  let  you  stay." 

Maryla  was  malcontent  with  life.  Suddenly  she  re- 
belled: "For  why  should  I  live  any  more?  For  why? 
Everybody  hates  me — everybody  is  glad  if  I  am  dead." 

Her  hand  slid  along  the  leaf  of  the  nearest  machine 
to  a  pair  of  great  shears — the  very  shears  that  Balinsky 
had  pressed  to  his  side.  She  set  the  double  points  against 
her  left  breast,  and  would  have  hammered  them  in  if 
Pasinsky  had  not  darted  forward  and  knocked  them  clat- 
tering to  the  floor.  He  caught  her  hands  in  his,  shout- 
ing: 

"You  should  not  hoit  yourselluf.  I  dun't  care  vat  yoii 
ditt.  I  loaf  you.  You  can't  loaf  me,  but  you  gotta  live. 
I  gotta  have  you  livink  here  vere  I  can  see  you." 

He  fell  to  his  knees,  clinging  to  her  hands  and  praying 
to  her  as  to  a  queen,  and  she  turned  away  as  if  he  were 
presumptuous.  She  dragged  her  fingers  from  his  grip, 
but  he  climg  about  her  waist,  maundering  so  frantically 
that  Adam  was  revolted.  His  contempt  was  like  spittle 
in  Pasinsky's  face. 

"Vat  for  a  dog  are  you  to  loaf  soch  a — soch  a — " 

Before  he  could  venture  the  word  Pasinsky's  hand 
darted  out  and  snatched  the  shears  from  the  floor,  and 
he  sprang  to  his  feet,  crying: 

"Adam  Sokalski,  you  say  it  imd  I  kill  you.  Make 
choost  once  anudder  mean  void,  und  I  cut  de  heart  out 
from  you." 

Adam  was  less  terrorized  than  dazed.  He  flung  out 
his  hands  in  a  wide  shrug  and  went  back  to  his  sewing- 
machine.  He  could  understand  that  so  many  steps  on 
the  treadle  meant  so  many  stitches  and  so  many  gar- 
ments finished.  That  was  about  all  that  was  left  to  him 
to  understand. 

Pasinsky's  outburst  was  exhausted  by  its  triumph,  and 

404 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

he  dropped  into  a  chair,  sobbing.  Maryla  envied  him  his 
sobs  and  the  woe  they  released.  She  stood  by  him,  pat- 
ting his  shoulders  and  comforting  him. 

"I  stay,  Henryk.     I  stay,  if  you  won't  cry  any  more." 

Instantly  Pasinsky's  childish  grief  was  altered  to  sobs 
of  laughter.  He  hugged  her  hands  like  miser's  gold,  and 
mumbled  them.  "Ve  shall  be  heppy,  too.  You  see! 
Tairrible  heppy.  You  goink  have  nice  t'ings  vitout  help 
of  Goyim.  I  got  viel  Geld.  For  two  years  I  am  savink, 
imd  now  it  iss  for  you.     See!" 

He  thrust  his  hand  inside  his  shirt  and  unpinned  a 
worn  old  wallet,  and  spilled  on  the  sewing-machine  a  tiny 
wealth  of  bills  and  coins.  He  spread  it  with  his  fingers, 
cotmting,  ^'Ein — Jiinf — zwanzig — siehen  und  dre-issig." 
He  told  it  greedily  past  the  hundred.  Then  he  pushed 
it  together  and  proffered  it  to  her  with  a  flourish. 

Maryla  understood  how  mighty  the  sum  was  in  his 
eyes,  and  she  smiled.     But  she  shook  her  head. 

"Thenk  you,  Henryk,  but  I  don't  want  it  your 
money.  I  want  it  to  woik,  and  to  help  my  miamma  and 
my  Dosia  and — and  my  papa  what  hates  me." 

Adam's  sewing-m.achine  ran  slower,  as  if  relenting, 
then  pushed  grimly  on  again.  Maryla  took  off  her  hat, 
laying  dowTi  the  hat-pin  which  Dosia  caught  up  with 
cries  of  admiration.  Maryla  blushed.  She  had  thought 
she  had  brought  nothing  of  Merithew's  away.  She  was 
tempted  to  thrust  the  hat-pin  into  the  stove,  but  she  re- 
membered how  gracious  Perry  had  been  when  she  saw 
it  and  exclaimed  upon  it  in  the  little  up-towTi  jewelry- 
shop,  and  how  he  had  dragged  her  inside  to  purchase 
it  and  had  bought  her  a  little  ring  besides. 

So  she  restored  the  hat-pin  to  the  hat  and  hung  the  hat 
on  its  old  hook  in  the  wardrobe.  Then  she  came  briskly 
back  to  the  sewing-machine  that  had  been  hers. 

"It  is  good  to  be  home,"  she  said,  bravely.  "And  to 
woik  is  good."  She  looked  at  the  devout  Pasinsky. 
"But  for  why  is  it  people  cannot  love  the  people  they  had 

405 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

ought  to  love?  For  why  must  somebody  always  love 
somebody  far  off  or  wrong?" 

Maryla  set  her  way-worn  feet  on  the  treadles,  and  the 
thread  paid  out  into  the  fabric,  the  coarse,  sharp  "pants" 
for  poor  workmen.  Soon  she  grew  wonderfully  drowsy. 
The  wheel  ran  slower  and  slower,  and  she  fell  asleep  with 
her  brow  on  the  back  of  her  hand. 

Her  father  woke  her  with  a  not  unkindly  roughness 
and  ordered  her  to  bed.  She  tottered  to  her  boudoir 
under  the  shelf  among  the  clothes  behind  the  curtain, 
and  undressed  while  she  wavered  with  sleep.  She  put  on 
again  the  coarse  nightgown  of  her  wont.  She  stretched 
herself  out  on  the  hard  bed  that  she  shared  with  Dosia, 
and  on  the  instant  she  slept.  Her  mother  bent  over  her 
with  the  down-gazing  worship  of  mothers.  Her  father 
did  not  look  at  her,  but  he  felt  glad  to  have  her  safe. 

It  was  still  dark  when  Maryla  woke.  Dosia  sprawled 
and  usurped  more  than  her  share.  For  all  her  fat,  her 
knees  were  sharp.  Adam's  snore  rattled  and  squawked 
and  ended  like  a  policeman's  whistle.  Rosa  snored  in 
snorts  of  peculiar  swinishness. 

Slowly  the  daybreak  opened  a  window  in  the  wall  of 
darkness.  Slowly  it  btiilt  anew  the  furniture  of  the 
room — ^the  idle  little  sewing-engines,  the  backs  of  chairs. 
Maryla  made  out  her  father's  profile,  his  head  far  back, 
his  mouth  a  cleft  of  agony  between  his  mustache  and  his 
upward-pointed  beard. 

Her  mother's  body  extended  in  great  billows,  her  fat 
head  rolled  down  upon  her  up-rolling  bosom.  In  the  cor- 
ner on  a  cot  the  tousled  head  of  Pasinsky  looked  decapi- 
tated on  its  pillow.  The  morning  light  burned  in  white 
spots  on  the  edges  of  pots  and  pans. 

Outside  the  dirty  window  she  could  see  across  the 
street  other  dirty  windows  and  rusty  fire-escapes,  littered. 

She  remembered  the  fine  linen  of  her  yester  home,  the 
silk  coverlet,  the  morning  light  gilding  the  satiny  brass 

406 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

rail  of  her  bedstead  and  flickering  like  water  on  the  white 
tile  of  the  bath-room.  From  that  bed  she  could  see  across 
the  gilt  furniture,  past  the  lacy  curtains  at  the  window- 
seat,  out  to  where  the  tops  of  green  trees  were  fluttering 
plumily.  She  had  but  to  press  a  button  and  the  maid 
came  at  her  call  and  brought  in  her  ebon  hands  on  an 
ivorish  tray  a  banquet  of  fruit  and  coffee  and  toast,  with 
a  little  squat  jug  of  cream.  Better  than  the  food  was  the 
china  and  the  napery. 

Then  she  remembered  the  countless  mornings  of  her 
life  at  home,  the  death  of  unappeased  sleep  whence  her 
father  used  to  drag  her  to  her  work.  She  remembered  the 
many  mornings  when  she  had  wakened  early  because  she 
was  too  sleepy  to  sleep;  and  how  often  she  had  seen  her 
father's  snores  choked  off,  had  seen  his  heavy  eyes  start 
open  in  alarm  at  the  light;  how  she  had  watched  him 
fight  the  old  battle  between  need  and  fatigue,  and  strug- 
gle to  his  elbow  and  nudge  her  mother,  groaning: 

"Rosa,  's  ist  heller  Tag!'' 

How  often  she  had  seen  her  mother  roll  out  to  the 
floor,  trying  to  shake  the  dear  slumber  from  her  famished 
eyes!    And  then  the  clatter  of  starting  the  fire. 

The  miserable  every-moming  resurrection  for  the  dooms- 
day of  toil. 

Here  loving  was  loafing,  kisses  and  caresses  were  a 
foolishness,  silks  and  jewels  and  gracious  attitudes  and 
plaiting  of  the  hair  were  a  wickedness.  Everything  that 
was  desirable  was  abomination — everything  abominable 
was  duty. 

She  had  escaped  it  once,  and  she  had  come  back  to 
take  up  the  old  burden  of  shame.  These  denizens  of  the 
slime  would  despise  her.  Suddenly  she  felt  that  it  was 
only  her  return  that  was  despicable. 

In  the  window  the  dingy  canary  was  flopping  from 
perch  to  perch  and  back  again,  pecking  at  the  bars,  try- 
ing to  find  a  way  out  into  the  deepening  simlight.  Maryla 
remembered  the  free  birds  she  had  seen  in  Fort  Washing- 

407 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

ton  Park  with  huge  tulip-trees  for  their  perches  and  the 
world  for  their  cage.  She  remembered  that  she  had 
promised  her  own  his  liberty.  She  rose  and  ran  bare- 
footed to  the  window  and  opened  the  little  wire  door. 

The  bird  was  afraid  of  freedom  as  she  had  been,  and 
flung  itself  here  and  there  in  the  comers  with  frantic 
wings.  At  last  she  turned  the  cage  on  the  side,  tilted  it 
till  the  bird  fell  through,  saved  itself  with  unaccustomed 
struggles,  found  itself  outside,  and  fluttered  to  the  railing 
of  the  fire-escape,  wondering  at  its  enfranchisement  and 
afraid  of  the  universe. 

She  wliispered  to  it:  "Fly  away — leetla  beerd — fly 
away — don't  be  scared." 

But  it  hopped  along  the  rusty  iron  rail,  chirping  un- 
grateful protests.  She  thrust  out  her  bare  arm  and  shook 
her  fingers  at  it.  And  then  it  made  off  on  uncertain  pin- 
ions. It  drew  a  little  golden  wire  of  flight  to  the  foreign 
cornice  on  the  other  side  of  the  canon  and  rested  from 
the  great  voyage.  Maryla  rejoiced  at  her  deed  till  a  little 
gang  of  cockney  sparrows  saw  it  and,  jealous  of  its  yellow 
finery,  mobbed  it  and  drove  it  into  the  wilderness. 

Maryla  pondered  the  dubious  benefit  of  its  liberty  a 
moment  and  took  an  omen  from  it.  She  surrendered  to 
her  lot,  and  was  creeping,  chilled,  back  into  her  bed,  when 
one  more  glance  about  the  tenement  sickened  her  of  pov- 
erty so  violently  that  she  ran  behind  the  curtain  of  the 
wardrobe. 

When  she  emerged  she  was  dressed.  She  sat  on  a  chair 
and  buttoned  her  boots  stealthily.  She  found  her  hat  and 
fastened  it  to  her  hair  with  the  amethyst-headed  pin. 

She  was  faint  with  hunger,  and  was  tempted  to  make 
coffee,  but  she  feared  to  linger.  Her  father's  soul  was  be- 
ginning to  do  battle  with  sleep,  and  she  knew  that  if 
she  caught  his  eye  he  would  redominate  her. 

She  passed  the  heap  of  money  Pasinsky  had  left  where 
he  poured  it  out  for  her.  She  hesitated,  then  she  felt  that 
it  would  please  him  if  she  took  a  little  of  it.    She  drew 

408 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

away  a  ten-dollar  bill  and  a  few  pieces  of  silver,  and  went 
atiptoe  to  the  door,  unlocked  it  slowly,  and  opened  it  so 
cautiously  that  it  could  not  squeal  in  alarm.  She  paused 
to  whisper  to  the  wretched  prisoners  she  left  behind: 

'  *  Good-by — ^good-by !' ' 

Then  she  stepped  into  the  hall  and  closed  the  door 
delicately  without  sound. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 

MARYLA  hurried  along  the  streets  where  everybody 
abroad  thus  betimes  seemed  to  be  still  haggard  with 
unrequited  drowsiness. 

She  took  a  street-car  to  her  former  boarding-place,  and 
was  welcomed  to  a  hall  bedroom  exactly  lilce  her  old  one, 
and  exactly  like  ten  thousand  others  in  town. 

Then  she  went  to  Dutilh's  shop,  and  with  a  desperately 
casual  smile  prepared  to  broach  the  elaborate  lie  she  had 
woven. 

Before  she  could  say  that  she  had  been  called  out  of 
town  by  the  sudden  illness  of  a  dear  relative,  Dutilh 
stormed  at  her: 

"Oh,  there  you  are,  are  you?  My  God,  but  you're 
late!  Go  hang  up  your  hat,  and  tell  Mrs.  Shenstone  to 
slam  you  into  that  new  Callot." 

He  flounced  away,  and  Maryla  gazed  after  him  with 
mingled  shame  and  adoration.  She  knew  that  he  under- 
stood. 

Dutilh  was  experienced  in  this  sort  of  thing.  His  ex- 
perience had  educated  him  beyond  sneers  or  sermons  or 
amusement.  He  felt  sorry  that  one  more  pretty  adven- 
turess had  tried  the  primrose  path  and  then  been  chucked 
out  of  it.  Since  the  rush  for  fall  and  winter  clothes  was 
on,  and  he  could  find  employment  for  her  again,  he  was 
willing  to  save  her  the  trouble  of  explanatory  fables.  He 
did  not  resemble  a  philanthropist,  but  the  person  who 
gives  a  "fallen"  girl  the  pick-up  of  a  job  is  the  truest 
charity-worker  of  all. 

And  so  Maryla  resumed  her  life  as  a  traveler  through 
numberless  beautiful  robes.    She  suffered  less  desire  now 

410 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

to  own  what  she  wore.  She  was  glad  to  tire  herself  out 
at  her  task,  since  fatigue  was  the  perfect  opiate  for  the 
long  nights  and  the  loneliness  and  hurt  pride.  She  tired 
more  easily  than  before,  and  she  was  the  prey  of  an  in- 
cessant terror  until  a  mystic  negative  signal  changed 
suspense  to  despair  and  she  knew  that  she  was  in  the 
employ  of  nature.  Nature  had  decoyed  her  into  the  great 
trap,  and  she  was  the  white  slave  of  posterity. 

She  began  to  save  her  meager  earnings  with  a  fierce 
economy — ^feathering  her  nest  she  was.  She  added  to  her 
income  by  spending  her  evenings  at  embroidery,  and  she 
grew  deft,  since  what  she  made  had  to  be  good  enough 
to  sell.  She  showed  Dutilh  some  of  her  work,  and  he 
bought  it  from  her  with  a  kind  of  pitying  gentleness  that 
terrified  her,  since  it  implied  that  his  womanly  intuition 
was  still  at  work. 

It  happened  that  the  whim  of  fashion  had  suddenly 
altered  from  clinging  integuments  to  loose-waisted,  wide- 
frilled  fantasies  of  eccentric  design;  and  that  was  to 
Maryla's  advantage  while  autimm  drifted  into  winter 
and  December  lapsed  into  January. 

Shortly  after  the  Christian  New- Year  had  been  cele- 
brated with  pagan  festival,  Maryla  found  that  the  dis- 
tance between  her  boarding-house  and  the  shop  had 
grown  immensely  longer,  and  it  was  up-hill  both  ways. 
Now-a-momings  she  was  exhausted  when  she  reached  the 
clothes  conservatory,  and  it  was  such  a  task  exchanging 
her  street  shoes  for  her  slippers  that  she  almost  fell  for- 
ward on  her  face. 

One  afternoon  Mrs.  Shenstone  brought  her  a  gown  of 
more  sedate  maturity  than  Maryla  usually  exhibited. 
When  she  walked  out  in  it,  she  found  that  Dutilh  was 
paying  great  deference  to  a  beautiful  matron  whose  white 
hair  was  like  a  graceful  sarcasm.  At  her  side  was  a  very 
young  man  dressed  with  the  swagger  of  a  collegian.  The 
woman  seemed  to  like  the  gown  Maryla  marched  in,  but 
the  yotmg  man  growled: 

411 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Ah,  cut  it  out,  mater.  That  '11  do  for  your  coming-in 
party  at  the  Old  Ladi^'  Home;  but  I'm  taking  you  to  a 
dance,  and  you're  going  to  be  the  kid  sister  of  all  the 
girls." 

The  woman  fro^^'ned  amiably:  "Now,  Perry,  don't 
flatter  your  old  mother."  And  she  smiled  up  to  Dutilh. 
"My  son  is  home  on  his  first  college  vacation,  and  he  in- 
sists on  dragging  me  to  a  dance.  He  wouldn't  let  me 
buy  anything  at  my  usual  shop.  He  said  he'd  stake  me 
to  something  giddy." 

"Your  son  is  quite  right,"  said  Dutilh.  "It  makes 
me  sick  to  see  a  young  and  beautiful  debutante  let  her- 
self be  pushed  into  the  chaperon  class.  Yotu*  son  has  his 
father's  good  taste.  Is  he  still  abroad,  yoiu"  husband- 
Mrs.  Merithew?" 

Maryla  felt  the  floor  see-sawing  beneath  her.  vShe 
turned  and  made  blindly  for  the  dressing-room.  She 
heard  Dutilh  calling  something  to  her,  but  she  dared  not 
pause  to  find  out  what  it  was.  She  ran  to  Mrs.  Shenstone, 
maundering:  "Get  me  out  of  this!     Get  me  out  of  this!" 

She  began  to  flap  her  hands  and  beat  her  breast  as  if 
she  were  suffocating.  Mrs.  Shenstone  whipped  the  cos- 
ttmie  over  her  head  and  pushed  her  into  a  chair. 

Dutilh  followed  close,  and  was  about  to  berate  Maryla 
when  he  saw  her  state  of  mind.  The  hysterical  typhoon 
that  swept  his  models  without  warning  was  a  hazard  of 
the  trade.  But  they  held  one  field  where  men  cotdd  not 
be  substituted  for  them. 

Dutilh  expended  on  Mrs.  Shenstone  the  vitriol  he  had 
prepared  for  Maryla:  "Put  that  Cubist  gowni  on  one  of 
the  other  girls  and  hustle  her  out.  And  let  Maryla  alone. 
Can't  you  see  she's  sick?" 

The  substitute  was  wrapped  in  a  fantastic  costume  and 
hurried  to  the  firing-line.  Mrs.  Shenstone  followed,  and 
Maryla,  abandoned  to  solitude,  regained  control  of  her- 

412 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

self.  But  she  sat  still,  brooding  over  many  things.  The 
final  horror  of  her  plight  was  the  discovery  that  Merithew 
had  a  wife  and  a  grown  son. 

A  little  later  Dutilh  poked  his  head  in  at  the  door. 
He  was  almost  shy  in  his  manner  when  he  spoke:  "You're 
on  your  feet  too  much,  my  child.  You  run  along  home 
and  stay  there  till  you  get  stronger." 

"But  money — I've  got  to  make  money!" 

"  rU  keep  you  busy  at  embroidery  jobs,  and  you'll  make 
just  as  much  there  as  here.  Run  along  now  and  take  care 
of  yourself.  If  you  need  anything,  or  any  friends,  let 
me  know.  And  for  God's  sake  don't  blubber.  Get  out 
now.     I'm  busy." 

Maryla  could  not  find  words  to  express  her  gratitude 
and  her  contrition,  but  her  eyes  were  flooded  with  thanks. 

She  went  slowly  back  to  her  boarding-house.  She 
managed  by  working  almost  from  morning  to  morning 
to  earn  something  more  than  her  living  expenses.  Her 
savings  she  put  away  in  a  safe  place  against  the  great 
debut. 

She  had  ample  time  to  ponder  the  solemn  consequences 
of  her  frivolous  romance.  She  was  honest  enough  to 
blame  herself  for  her  misfortune  more  than  the  man. 
She  felt  that  she  was  undergoing  a  righteous  penance. 
She  had  done  heinous  wrong  and  had  knowTi  it  at  the 
time.  Half  of  the  \^ild  sweetness  of  her  sin  had  been  the 
sin  of  it.  Jehovah  was  a  just  God.  He  was  a  shrewd 
collector,  but  He  did  not  cheat. 

But  the  man — ^where  was  he?  What  penalty  was  he 
paying?    What  penalty  would  ever  be  exacted  from  him? 

She  felt  that  Perry  Merithew  was  a  very  miserable 
scoundrel.  He  had  a  beautiful  \\ife  and  a  fine  son,  yet 
he  did  not  keep  good.  She  began  to  see  why  such  light, 
handsome,  amusing  merrymen  as  he  were  regarded  with 
contempt  and  hostility  by  solemner  men  like  her  father. 
She  began  to  feel  that  her  father,  hard-toiling,  home- 
keeping  sloven  that  he  was,  was  a  more  beautiful  soul 

413 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

than  the  exqvdsite  Perry.  She  began  to  understand  what 
ugly  things  result  from  the  longing  for  pretty  things. 

She  began  to  despise  Merry  Perry,  and  from  that  to 
hate  him — yet  deUberately  as  always.  Her  love  ebbed 
out  tardily,  and  her  hatred  replaced  it  tardily,  but  it  was 
filling  her  soul.  Her  mood  was  no  longer  one  of  hurt 
pride,  of  cowering  shame,  and  meek  repentance.  It  was 
an  Israelitic  mood  of  wrath  against  the  snarer  of  her  feet, 
of  wrath  against  the  coward  who  gave  women  sons  and 
abandoned  them. 

She  began  to  hate  him  with  the  wild-beast  hatred  a 
young  female  animal  feels  for  the  father  of  its  young. 

Dire  schemes  of  pimishment  began  to  occupy  her 
thoughts.  She  sat  alone  in  a  little  cold  room,  embroidering 
flowers  of  thread  upon  meshes  of  thread,  and  crocheting 
snares  for  Merry  Perry's  feet  to  revenge  the  snares  he 
had  spread  for  hers. 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

MURIEL  had  not  meant  to  stay  away  so  long,  but 
fear  of  the  New  York  newspapers  and  of  the  police 
kept  her  abroad  till  the  speU  of  Europe  regained  control 
over  her. 

Friends  and  relatives  of  hers  were  sown  broadcast  about 
Europe  by  international  marriages.  She  was  beckoned 
from  chateau  to  castle,  and  from  Schloss  to  palazzo,  with 
various  hotels  between.  She  received  more  or  less  unwel- 
come tuition  in  the  courtship  customs  of  various  nations, 
and  she  heard  the  words  "beautiful,"  "cruel,"  "adora- 
tion," "mercy,"  and  "marriage"  in  several  languages. 
She  laughed  at  them  all  more  or  less  sincerely,  and  hked 
men  more  or  less  polyandrously,  never  dreaming  that 
within  a  year  most  of  them  woiild  be  crouching  in  battle- 
trenches,  or  fighting  in  the  clouds  or  under  the  sea,  or 
writhing  in  military  hospitals  or  biuied  in  lonely  ditches. 
And  that  Perry  Merithew  would  be  dead  in  New  York. 

She  traversed  the  Europe  that  will  never  be  again. 
She  dalUed  in  Rheims  and  in  Louvain  and  Li^ge.  Officers 
of  every  uniform  attempted  flirtations  with  her.  They 
had  Httle  to  excite  them  then  except  their  studies  for  a 
war  that  was  ridiculously  improbable. 

Muriel  had  qualms  of  conscience  for  the  neglected  chil- 
dren of  her  own  country,  and  she  vowed  that  she  would 
take  every  next  steamer  that  was  sailing  westward.  But 
she  was  young,  and  the  selection  of  a  mate  was  inevitably 
her  chief  industry.  And  she  could  always  find  some  ex- 
cuse before  her  own  accusatory  self  by  blaming  her  father 
and  mother. 

415 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

The  long  crossing  on  -the  yacht  had  given  her  time  to 
write  to  Worthing  almost  every  day,  and  from  the  first 
port  they  touched  she  had  sent  him  a  mass  of  pages 
that  was  a  trifle  small  for  a  volimie,  but  ponderous  for  a 
letter. 

The  letter  had  glowed  with  a  distinct  feeling  that  all 
of  the  poor  of  New  York  were  her  immediate  children, 
and  that  Dr.  Worthing  was  their  spiritual  father  and  actual 
guardian  till  she  returned.  But  the  rich  and  poor  of 
Europe  eclipsed  the  distant  pauperdom,  and  by  the  time 
Dr.  Worthing  had  received  her  letter  and  his  answer  had 
reached  her,  she  had  pretty  well  forgotten  exactly  what 
she  had  said.  Also,  she  seemed  to  feel  that  his  answer 
lacked  the  ebullience  of  her  letter. 

And  that  was  true.  In  Muriel's  presence  Worthing 
was  another  man.  She  had  come  at  him  out  of  the  dark 
like  an  automobile  at  night ;  the  look  in  her  eyes  blinded 
him  like  a  pair  of  headlights.  He  did  not  know  how  to 
steer  his  own  heart  except  straight  into  the  light. 

But  when  she  had  gone  on  down  the  road  he  found 
himself  in  the  dark  again — ^in  the  gutter  with  his  little  tin 
car,  ashamed  of  the  contrast  with  the  imported  limousine 
that  glided  by,  glistening  and  sumptuous. 

A  rich  young  man  in  love  with  a  poor  young  woman 
has  always  been  a  romantic  and  noble  person  in  any 
literature;  but  in  America,  at  least,  the  other  way  about 
leaves  the  young  man  ridiculous  and  ignoble.  Suppose 
Worthing  made  conquest  of  Muriel  and  became  her  hus- 
band, what  would  he  be  on  that  yacht  but  a  poor  rela- 
tion by  marriage?  His  salary  for  a  year  would  not  pay 
to  keep  the  yacht  in  commission  for  a  week. 

Dr.  Worthing  did  not  believe  in  vermiform  appendices. 
He  cut  them  off  when  he  had  the  slightest  excuse.  He 
would  not  care  to  be  the  vermiform  appendix  of  a  rich 
family. 

When  he  received  Muriel's  first  letter  it  threw  him  into 
a  fever  of  longing,  but  he  refrained  from  answering  it  till 

416 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

cold  reason  had  assuaged  his  temperature.  Then  he 
wrote  amiably,  with  an  unintentional  effect  of  condescen- 
sion. Muriel,  finding  her  first  rhapsody  answered  long 
after  she  had  written  other  rhapsodies,  felt  the  aloofness 
of  his  manner  and  resented  it.  Her  next  letter  showed 
that  feeling.  It  reached  him  in  time  to  allay  the  fever 
her  previous  letters  had  wrought  him  to  again.  His  an- 
swer to  that  was  one  of  iciclic  phrasing. 

Correspondence  across  the  ocean  is  one  long  anachro- 
nism at  best,  since  the  letter  that  arrives  is  never  in  an- 
swer to  the  last  one  sent,  and  never  finds  one  in  the  same 
mood. 

Muriel  learned  that  the  BaHnskys  had  been  rescued 
from  deportation  at  the  President's  direct  order.  In 
fact,  the  President  had  answered  Muriel's  letter  to  him 
in  much  the  same  spirit,  and  had  won  from  her  the  final 
praise  that  he  was  "an  awfully  nice  man." 

Worthing  wrote  that  he  had  put  the  girl  Rachel  into  an 
institution,  where  she  was  having  the  best  of  care.  He 
wrote  her  that  Happy  Hanigan's  operation  had  not  been 
the  success  expected,  and  his  recuperation  had  not  been 
ideal.  A  further  operation  was  required,  since  the  pov- 
erty of  the  boy's  parents,  his  poor  food,  and  his  hard- 
ships and  the  delay  in  submitting  to  surgery  had  all 
worked  against  him;  but  that  he  was  now  enjoying  all 
the  resources  of  science. 

Worthing,  indeed,  had  left  his  place  as  interne  at 
Bellevue  for  a  post  on  the  staff  of  Dr.  Eccleston,  who  had 
made  him  his  assistant  and  opened  up  to  him  a  suddenly 
enlarged  career.  He  bought  himself  a  little  automobilette 
— on  borrowed  money — in  order  to  visit  the  patients  he 
expected  to  acquire. 

His  earnings  had  doubled  now;  and  yet, in  the  presence 
of  a  thousand,  twice  two  is  not  much  more  than  once  two 
was  in  the  first  place.  He  realized  this  in  time  to  keep 
from  cabling  Muriel  a  proposal  of  marriage. 

Muriel  wrote  a  tear-stained  letter  over  Happy  Hani- 
417 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

gan's  delayed  miracle,  and  she  wrote  a  letter  full  of  super' 
latives  over  Worthing's  success;  but  he  was  busy  at  his 
solemn  tasks,  and  she  at  her  trade  of  pastimes. 

Muriel  read  in  the  Paris  Herald  and  in  the  belated 
American  papers  of  the  bitter  winter  New  York  was 
experiencing,  and  how  the  unemployed  and  the  unshel- 
tered myriads  suffered ;  how  even  the  Municipal  Lodging- 
House  could  not  provide  for  the  doleful  flocks  harried  in 
by  the  wolfish  night  winds. 

She  begged  to  go  home  to  their  aid,  but  her  mother  re- 
fused to  cross  the  ocean  in  midwinter,  and  forbade  Muriel 
to  go  over  alone.  They  sent  subscriptions  and  instruc- 
tions to  Mr.  Chivot  to  relax  the  purse-strings,  but  that 
was  not  the  same. 

Perry  Merithew  bobbed  up  shortly  after  her  arrival 
in  Europe,  and  expressed  a  somewhat  overdone  surprise 
and  a  somewhat  overstrained  delight  at  happening  upon 
the  Schuylers  in  the  lobby  of  the  Opera. 

Mrs.  Schuyler  spoiled  his  evening  by  saying:  "And  how 
is  your  darling  wife?  And  is  she  with  j^'ou?  And  your 
dear  boy?     How  is  he  liking  Harvard?" 

Perry  said  that  his  boy  was  playing  hard  at  college, 
and  his  wife  would  join  him  shortly.  This  reassured  Mrs. 
Schuyler,  and  she  permitted  Perry  to  be  handy  man  about 
the  town.  He  paid  violent  court  to  Mrs.  Schuyler,  and 
seemed  to  leave  Muriel  so  much  in  the  lurch  that  she 
gave  him  a  good  deal  of  attention  when  she  could.  She 
made  one  or  two  excursions  with  Perry  to  places  where  a 
careful  young  girl  does  not  take  her  innocent  old  mother. 
But  she  was  in  small  danger  from  the  dangerous  Perry, 
because  he  reverenced  her  with  a  solemnity  he  had  not 
dreamed  himself  capable  of.  He  was  rather  proud  of 
himself. 

The  fantastic  mushroom  notion  of  making  Muriel  his 
wife  flourished  in  the  subceUar  of  his  soul.  He  deter- 
mined that  as  soon  as  the  present  wearer  of  his  "Mrs." 
arrived  abroad  he  would  broach  the  subject  of  a  divorce. 

418 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Mrs.  Perry  came;  he  broached  it;  and  she  declined  it. 
She  asked  him  who  his  new  fancy  was,  and  she  suspected 
everybody  but  Muriel.  He  vowed  that  he  would  force 
her  to  free  him,  but  she  laughed  back  the  discouraging 
statement  that  if  she  had  stood  as  much  as  she  had  stood 
all  these  years,  she  would  manage  to  stand  still  worse  if  he 
could  manage  to  achieve  it. 

Mrs.  Merithew  was  determined  to  keep  up  the  home 
for  their  boy's  sake.  A  cynical  mind  might  have  won- 
dered what  the  word  "home"  could  represent,  with  the 
father  always  away  and  always  unfaithful,  and  the  mother 
indifferent. 

When  Perry  sought  to  escape  from  his  wife  back  to 
Muriel's  environment,  he  found  that  both  Muriel  and  her 
mother  insisted  on  including  Mrs.  Merithew  in  all  their 
invitations,  and  she  persisted  in  accepting  them. 

The  difficulties  of  courting  the  future  Mrs.  Merithew 
imder  the  lorgnon  of  the  present  Mrs.  Merithew  were 
too  severe  even  for  Perry's  advanced  technic,  and  he  gave 
up  trying. 

Just  in  time  the  neglected  Aphra  Shaler  arrived  abroad 
with  an  enormously  wealthy  and  ignorant  copper-crat, 
who  blatantly  criticized  the  frog-eating  Frenchies  and 
generally  disgraced  America  by  the  things  he  foimd  fault 
with  in  France.  He  was  so  tiresome  and  crass  that  even 
Aphra  was  ashamed  to  be  seen — and  heard — ^with  him. 
Perry  found  a  melancholy  amusement  in  borrowing  her 
from  his  bewildered  compatriot. 

Mrs.  Merithew,  disgusted,  went  back  to  America  to 
spend  the  Christmas  vacation  with  her  son.  By  that  time 
Perry  had  lost  track  of  Muriel  and  lost  patience  with 
Aphra.  He  sought  distraction  in  Monte  Carlo  and  in 
Tangiers,  but  a  longing  to  settle  down  was  driving  him 
to  a  frenzy. 

In  the  spring  he  went  back  to  Paris,  bent  on  desperate 
courtship;  but  he  found  that  Muriel  had  gone  to  Carls- 
bad.    Perry  hated  Carlsbad,  but  he  followed  her  thither, 

419 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

and  stomached  the  waters  in  order  to  quaff  the  nectar 
of  Muriel's  presence;  spent  hours  of  promenade  with 
Jacob  and  wdth  Susan  for  the  sake  of  being  near  Muriel. 
She  made  no  bones  of  leaving  him  stranded  with  her 
parents  when  younger  suitors  proffered  more  congenial 
entertainment. 

All  in  all,  Perry's  cup  of  life  tasted  just  Hke  the  Sprudel 
water  he  imbibed — ^insipid,  lukewarm,  acrid. 

The  improvement  the  water  he  drank  worked  on  his 
liver  was  lost  in  the  aggravated  distress  of  his  spleen, 
,md  at  length  he  pronounced  himself  cured  and  fled. 


CHAPTER  L 

MARYLA'S  landlady  had  had  her  suspicions  for  some 
time;  but  she  needed  the  rental  money,  and  mind- 
your-own-business  was  her  policy.  This  protected  Maryla 
till  two  older  and  more  profitable  tenants  threatened  to 
leave,  whereupon  she  rose  in  her  wrath  and  expelled 
Maryla. 

The  landlady's  language  and  manner  were  not  gracious, 
but  her  moral  springboard  was  fastened  on  the  very  bul- 
warks of  society.  Lodging-houses  cannot  succeed  in  at- 
tracting substantial  customers  if  they  encourage  young 
unmarried  ladies  to  excesses  of  domesticity.  And,  if 
anybody  is  ever  going  to  rebuke  anything  at  all,  it  would 
surely  be  such  disregard  of  the  purity  and  security  of  the 
race  as  Maryla  had  shown. 

In  the  black  wrath  of  her  shame,  as  she  lugged  her  be- 
longings down  the  street,  Maryla  made  one  weary,  half- 
insane  resolve  to  find  Perry  and  force  him  to  provide  for 
her  or  skewer  his  miserable  heart  with  the  amethystine 
pin.  But  Perry  had  not  yet  come  back  from  Europe,  and 
she  accepted  her  doom  as  something  arranged. 

When  she  found  other  lodgings  she  gave  out  that  she 
was  the  \vidow  of  an  imaginary  man  recently  run  over  by 
a  street-car.  There  are  so  many  such  widows  that  the 
story  was  accepted  without  inquiry.  Maryla  was  per- 
suaded by  her  new  landlady  to  save  danger  and  expense 
by  intrusting  herself  to  a  maternity  hospital,  where  the 
benevolent  city  acted  as  Lucina  with  as  much  skill  and 
precaution  as  a  millionaire  could  have  procured. 

421 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Maxyla  was  aghast  to  find  that  she  did  not  feel  an  in- 
stant passion  of  love  for  the  child.  She  had  hated  its 
father  and  herself  so  much  that  there  was  no  love  for 
the  baby's  heritage.  It  was  a  girl,  and  naturally  not 
pretty  at  first,  and  naturally  very  noisy  and  nasty  and 
exacting  and  selfish;   and  it  kept  very  irregular  hours. 

In  due  time  Maryla  crept  back  to  her  boarding-house 
with  her  new  luggage.  The  baby  proclaimed  its  arrival 
with  a  fanfare  of  uproar.  It  was  its  own  brass  band.  It 
made  itself  a  nuisance  to  the  boarders,  who  needed  sleep 
occasionally.  A  baby  makes  a  large  crowd  in  a  small  bed- 
room, and  it  interfered  with  Maryla's  ability  to  earn  the 
very  money  itself  required  in  such  abundance. 

Maryla  had  moods  of  pride  and  idolatry  and  frenzies 
of  love,  but  even  these  told  her  that  it  was  for  the  baby's 
own  good  that  it  should  have  better  care  than  she  could 
give  it.  When  people  begin  to  say  that  something  is  for 
some  one's  else  own  good,  a  divorce  is  imminent. 

The  landlady  endiired  the  noisy  baby  till  her  boarders 
threatened  to  leave;  then  she  handed  Maryla  her  passports. 
Maryla  gathered  her  belongings  together  once  more  and 
moved  on;  a  new  wicker  suit-case  hanging  from  one  arm; 
the  new  baby  seated  on  the  other  and  making  so  much 
commotion  that  a  sour-voiced  crier  of  "sweet  oranges" 
and  a  raucous  bidder  for  "recks  und  olt  i-rin"  forbore 
competition  till  the  baby  had  passed  on  with  its  procla- 
mation of  woe. 

Maryla's  present  plight  seemed  to  foreshadow  her 
whole  futvire;  she  would  flounder  lower  and  lower  in  the 
world,  with  one  arm  full  of  freight  and  the  other  full  of 
this  baby  that  hated  its  life  as  much  as  she  hated  hers. 
She  decided  that  the  East  River  was  a  good  place  for  both 
of  them.  A  better  place  was  one  of  those  pretty  lakes 
she  had  seen  in  Central  Park.  She  started  that  way,  but 
paused  again.  She  was  remembering  that  she  had  heard 
a  neighbor  at  the  maternity  hospital  speak  of  the  basket 
of  Sister  Irene. 

422 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

There  was  the  solution  of  all  her  riddles !  She  stopped 
at  a  little  lunch-room  and  persuaded  the  owner  to  keep 
her  suit-case  till  she  returned  for  it.  Then  she  turned 
north  on  Lexington  Avenue  to  find  that  magic  Irenean 
receptacle  of  intolerable  burdens. 

The  omens  were  good.  The  moment  she  entered  the 
new  road,  the  baby  began  to  chortle  and  wave  its  hands 
in  delight.  Maryla's  own  feet  grew  light.  Her  eyes 
brightened  with  relief. 

She  sped  so  well  that  she  did  not  heed  who  passed  by. 
But  at  length  she  made  out  ahead,  waving  and  smiling  at 
her,  a  pale,  frail  little  woman  whom  she  had  not  seen 
for  almost  a  year.  It  was  Balinsky's  wife,  Miriam. 
Maryla's  last  view  of  her  face  had  impressed  it  upon  her 
as  the  very  mask  of  despair. 

As  the  two  so  contrasted  mothers  approached,  Maryla 
was  musing  upon  what  strange  officers  fate  chooses  for 
its  businesses.  If  she  had  not  interceded  for  Rachel  Bal- 
insky  she  would  not  now  be  the  ruthless  victim  of  a  ruth- 
less sin. 

Miriam  explained  in  Yiddish  that  she  had  just  been  to 
see  her  daughter,  who  was  getting  well  in  the  hospital 
where  the  wonderful  Dr.  "Voiteen"  had  placed  her  after 
the  order  came  from  the  "Praysidunt"  commanding  the 
thieves  and  child-stealers  and  murderers  on  Ellis  Island 
not  to  send  Rachel  back  by  Rossia,  but  to  set  her  free 
in  New  York.  And  now  Michal  Balinsky  was  working 
by  chickens  in  a  grand  store  on  Grand  Street,  and  Rachel 
was  in  a  hospital  finer  as  a  temple  of  Solomon. 

Miriam  was  so  rhapsodic  with  her  own  history  that  she 
had  hardly  seen  the  child  asleep  on  Maryla's  arm.  At 
last  she  asked  whose  baby  it  was  that  Maryla  was  carry- 
ing, and  was  she  a  nurse  by  millionaires  yet.  Maryla 
could  not  control  her  color  or  her  eyes,  and  Miriam  knew 
that  the  baby  was  hers. 

Miriam  cried  out  that  she  had  not  heard  of  Maryla's 

423 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

marriage,  and  demanded  to  know  who  was  the  lucky 
gentlemans.  Maryla  coiild  not  disguise  the  fact  that  she 
was  not  married.  Such  a  horror  was  so  rare  in  Miriam's 
ken  that  she  almost  fainted.  She  stood  wringing  her 
hands  and  whispering  many  a  "Weh,  weh!  vidu!  oi  oi! 
oh  weh!" 

It  angered  Maryla  to  stand  there  and  attract  the 
attention  of  loiterers  and  be  wept  over.  Some  rankHng 
desperateness  led  her  to  deal  a  finishing  blow: 

"I  go  by  Fountlink  Hospidal  and  give  thees  bebby  to 
the  Chreestians.     It  is  Chreestian  bebby." 

Miriam  clawed  her  and  belabored  her  with  prayers 
against  such  atrocity,  but  Maryla  wrenched  her  arm 
loose  and  hastened  on.  She  glanced  back  and  saw  the 
ugly  little  ramshackle  wretch  staggering  down  the  street. 

Maryla  had  heard  that  Miriam  had  been  pretty  once; 
she  had  given  her  life  and  her  looks  to  her  daughter, 
and  her  daughter  had  become  imbecile,  and  brought 
nothing  but  terror  and  poverty  and  despair  to  her  mother. 

She  was  a  nice  one  to  advise  a  yoimg  girl  to  cling  to 
her  child  through  thick  and  thin!  Who  had  profited  by 
her  martyrdom?  The  father  had  tried  to  kill  himself, 
the  mother  was  a  wraith,  the  daughter  a  pitiful  ruin.  If 
that  was  God's  way  of  rewarding  devotion,  Maryla  de- 
cided that  she  would  be  doing  her  child  a  kindness  by 
putting  it  out  of  her  own  reach. 

There  was  no  beauty  in  this  thought,  but  there  was 
strength,  and  Maryla  finished  her  journey  in  a  grim  cakn. 
At  Sixty-eighth  Street  she  found  the  home  of  Sister  Irene's 
basket.  An  architect  would  have  shuddered  at  the  build- 
ing, but  to  Maryla  it  was  a  beautiful  city  of  refuge  on  a 
high  hiU  of  safety. 

The  immense  institution  that  fills  a  whole  square  now 
had  indeed  grown  out  of  the  basket  Sister  Irene  set  out- 
side her  door  in  West  Twelfth  Street  nearly  fifty  years 
before.    At  that  time  good  folk  still  clung  to  the  horrible 

424 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

fallacy  that  the  way  to  keep  people  from  crime  was  to 
treat  them  cruelly  after  they  committed  it.  Sister  Irene 
believed  that  she  might  save  a  few  unwilling  mothers 
from  thrusting  their  imwelcome  intruders  back  into  the 
Everywhere  out  of  the  Here  via  the  rivers  or  the  ash- 
barrels,  if  she  provided  a  more  fitting  place  for  the  ten- 
der bodies  and  a  beginning  instead  of  an  ending  to  their 
Hves. 

The  basket  became  so  harrowingly  popular  an  institu- 
tion that  a  special  building  was  erected  and  enlarged  again 
and  again.  At  length  the  city  of  New  York  came  to  the 
aid  of  the  Sisters  of  Charity. 

Mother  Manhattan,  which  callow  noveHsts  and  fireless 
poets  love  to  rubber-stamp  "the  modem  Nineveh,"  the 
"New  Babylon,"  gave  more  and  more  of  her  funds  to  the 
Sisters  till  the  iisual  annual  dole  had  reached  three  hundred 
and  sixty-eight  thousand  dollars.  The  baby  that  Maryla 
brought  to  the  vine-fronded  door  was  the  sixty-one 
thousand  two  hundred  and  nineteenth  child  it  had  re- 
ceived on  the  mother's  own  terms. 

But  by  the  time  Maryla  arrived  a  change  had  taken 
place.  The  mystic  fame  of  the  basket  had  spread  afar, 
and  from  all  parts  of  the  virtuous  provinces  and  from  over- 
seas as  well,  a  horde  of  veiled  mothers  hastened  to  pre- 
sent the  vicious  metropoHs  with  their  children. 

At  last  the  basket  was  removed  from  the  outer  arch 
to  the  vestibule  inside,  not  because  the  city  and  the  Sisters 
wished  to  rob  any  desperate  woman  of  the  privilege  of 
leaving  her  impossible  baby  there  and  departing  uni- 
dentified; but  because  the  first  of  industries,  the  manu- 
facture of  human  milk,  could  not  keep  pace  with  the  need. 
Even  the  big  city  could  not  provide  breasts  enough  to 
feed  the  wards  that  would  not  prosper  on  the  bottle. 
The  multi-mammate  Ephesian  Diana  herself  would  have 
faltered  before  the  onsets  of  such  a  Lilliputian  host. 

When  Maryla  arrived  she  hesitated  outside  a  while, 
1  hen  peered  within  and  saw  the  little  white  wicker  bassinet, 
H  425 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

ribboned  and  canopied  in  white,  waiting  in  the  hall.  She 
stole  in  timorously  and  bent  over,  and  was  just  unloading 
her  arms  of  the  sacrifice  when  she  was  approached  by  a 
gentle  woman  in  a  quaintly  frilled  glazed  bonnet  and  a 
voluminous  black  robe.  Maryla  whirled  on  her  Hke  a 
caught  thief,  but  she  was  kindly  bespoken  and  invited 
to  a  conference. 

Surges  of  shame  incarnadined  the  girl's  shivering  flesh, 
and  she  was  fain  to  break  free.  But  gentleness  builds 
firmer  barriers  than  steel,  and  she  Hstened  perforce,  not 
to  commands  or  rebukes,  but  a  plea  that  she  help  the 
city  to  care  for  her  baby  and  herself. 

The  pale-faced,  white-haired  virgin  who  had  never 
borne  a  child,  and  yet  mothered  three  thousand  children 
every  year,  knew  more  of  motherhood  than  any  mere 
mother  could  know,  because  she  had  known  all  the  sorts 
of  mothers,  and  multitudes  of  each  sort.  Herself  anony- 
mous for  the  sake  of  charity,  she  aided  these  other 
anonymous  ones. 

She  had  seen  from  her  high  white  lighthouse  what 
storms  of  love  and  fear  and  hate  sweep  the  human  heart 
and  what  wrecks  they  strew.  She  did  not  condemn  from 
where  she  was,  but  kept  the  lamp  alight  and  annoimced 
the  reefs. 

She  beamed  upon  the  baleful  eyes  of  Maryla,  and  said: 
"  My  child,  if  you  can't  afford  to  take  care  of  your  baby — 
and  such  a  pretty  one  it  is,  isn't  it  ? — ^won't  you  stay  here 
with  it?  Make  this  your  home  so  that  the  Httle  thing 
can  have  its  mother's  milk  and  its  mother's  love  till  it  is 
strong  enough  to  be  left,  or  taken  with  you?  Perhaps  you 
could  even  help  us  by  feeding  some  other  Httle  hungry 
child  whose  mother  is  dead  or — or  lacking  in  stistenance 
for  her  own." 

Maryla  was  almost  persuaded,  but  a  gust  of  wildness 
flvmg  her  heart  out  of  its  course.  She  rebelled  against 
immuring  herself  here  as  the  nurse  of  Perry  Merithew's 
child.    Why  should  he  go  free  among  luxuries  while  sh© 

426 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

consigned  herself  to  this  Christian  prison?  She  shook 
her  head  in  sullen  refusal. 

The  Sister  mvirmured  a  warning  appeal:  "If  you  won't 
take  care  of  your  own,  my  dear,  do  you  realize  that  you 
will  have  to  give  it  up  entirely — to  be  nursed  by  some 
other  woman?  And  by  and  by  somebody  will  come  along 
and  adopt  it  for  her  own  and  give  it  another  name? 
Some  other  woman  whom  God  has  not  blessed  with  a 
baby  as  He  has  you?  You  wouldn't  want  that,  would 
you?" 

It  is  dangerous  to  ask  a  question  that  can  be  answered 
by  a  Yes  or  a  No,  for  then  the  mind  has  but  to  toss  a 
penny  and  speak  the  word  that  falls  j&rst  on  the  lips. 
So  now  Maryla  in  a  sudden  ferocity  of  defiance,  and  with 
a  reversion  to  earlier  dialect,  cried  out: 

"Yes!  It  is  jost  what  I  want  it!  Thees  bebby  is  not 
my  bebby!  I  did  not  esk  it!  I  did  not  choosse  thees 
bebby!  It  does  not  want  me.  All  the  time  it  cries — 
cries — cries!  God  did  not  sent  me  thees  bebby.  I  was 
bad  and  a  mans  was  bad,  and  he  goes  away  and  bebby 
comes.  If  some  other  woman  wants  it  to  have  thees 
bebby,  she  should  have  it,  but  not  me.  By  me,  she  is 
sick  all  the  time.  She  is  not  heppy.  She  dies  soon  or 
she  grows  up  bad  like  me." 

The  Sister  had  met  himdreds  of  women  in  just  such  a 
mood.  Every  day  there  was  some  Maryla  here,  in  a 
strange  tangle  of  selfishness,  altruism,  revolt,  collapse j 
hysteria,  and  cold  logic.  Often  the  frenzied  creatures 
wrenched  themselves  free  from  their  young  as  if  they  tore 
apart  the  invisible  imibilical  cord  of  tradition,  only  to 
find,  when  they  were  free,  that  their  own  hearts  were 
bleeding  themselves  out  through  the  wound.  The  next 
day,  or  the  next  week  or  month,  they  crept  back  and 
begged  to  be  re-employed  at  the  mother-job  in  the  vast 
dairy  of  life.     She  had  such  a  hope  of  Maryla. 

And  so,  without  further  debate,  the  Sister  sent  for  one 
of  the  blank  forms  in  which  the  great  surrender  of  the  in- 

427 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

dividual  to  the  commimity  was  so  coldly  and  dreadfully 
legalized : 


I,  mother  of  a  infant  child 

aged,  named,  ,  bom    at 

do  hereby  surrender  and  entrust  to  The  New  York  Foundling 
Hospital,  for  the  period  of  life,  the  entire  management  and 
control  of  such  child,  and  do  hereby  assign  to  and  invest 
said  Corporation  with  the  same  powers  and  control  over 
said  child,  as  those  of  which  I  am  possessed. 

Dated,  New  York, ,  191 

Witness 


Maryla  read  it  with  vague  understanding  and  shivered 
before  its  chill.  Yet  she  was  so  distraught  with  her  many 
shames  that  she  welcomed  this  one  more.  No  one  else 
could  desijise  her  as  she  despised  herself,  and  she  saw  a 
land  of  penance  in  pulling  this  final  ignominy  upon  her 
head. 

And,  also,  there  was  a  secret  reUef  in  escaping  the 
solemn  endless  duties  of  her  motherhood.  Like  the  wan- 
ton Christina  of  Sweden,  she  signed  away  the  glory  of 
the  crown  in  order  to  be  free  of  its  weight. 

There  was  some  confusion  about  Maryla's  name. 
When  the  Sister  asked  for  that,  Maryla  answered,  "  Mary- 
la — Maryla — "  and  hesitated. 

What  was  her  name  as  a  mother — Sokalska  or  Meri- 
thew?  To  give  the  former  would  be  to  smirch  her  father's 
honor;  to  give  the  latter  would  be  to  betray  Merithew. 
And  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  dignify  or  to  dis- 
grace him  so  far. 

The  Sister,  mishearing  the  unusual  name  and  thinking 
that  the  girl  was  of  French  extraction  or  wished  to  pre- 

428 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

tend  to  be,  repeated  and  wrote,  "Marie  La — "  and  waited. 
At  length  she  said: 

"Marie  La — ^what?    La  Forge?    La  Place?    La  Croix?" 

Maryla  chose  the  last.  "Marie  La  Kvah,"  she  said. 
The  Sister  smiled  sadly.  The  choice  of  names  grew  diffi- 
cult when  it  recurred  by  the  thousandfold.  She  accepted 
Maryla's  nom  de  mere,  and  wrote  in  the  spaces  that  the 
child  was  ' '  female ' ' ;  aged  ' '  two  weeks ' ' ;  named  ' '  Marie, '  * 
and  "bom  at  New  York."  And  she  dated  it  Jime  9, 
1914. 

Then  she  invited  Maryla  to  sign,  and  exchanged  the 
pen  for  the  baby.  She  pretended  not  to  notice  the  sur- 
prise Maryla  showed  at  the  spelling  of  her  own  name,  or 
the  slow,  palsied  scrawl  with  which  she  copied  it. 

After  all,  what  is  life  but  the  signing  of  an  assumed 
name  to  a  form  in  which  we  may  fill  only  a  few  blanks? 

When  the  supreme  abdication  was  signed,  the  Sister 
took  the  pen  to  witness  the  signature.  Maryla  offered 
to  relieve  her  of  the  child  while  she  wrote,  but  the  Sister 
shook  her  head  and  smiled,  and  said,  "No,  no;  the  baby 
belongs  to  me  now." 

This  crucial  test  almost  broke  Maryla's  resolution,  as 
the  sly  saint  hoped  it  wotild.  It  had  melted  other  fierce 
souls.  Maryla's  eyes  blazed  with  jealousy  and  with 
alarm  at  the  response  the  fickle  child  made  to  the  stran- 
ger's caress,  and  with  scorn  of  the  Sister's  unfruitful  spin- 
sterhood.  Maryla's  bosom  and  her  loins  were  wrtmg  with 
longing  to  recall  their  own. 

But  she  struck  her  hand  across  her  eyes  to  shut  out  the 
angelic  temptation  and,  turning,  ran  away. 


CHAPTER  LI 

THE  Sister's  guess  was  true.  Having  given  up  hef 
child,  Maryla  became  the  prey  of  unceasing  remorse. 
She  wept,  put  out  her  arms,  resolved  to  go  back  and  res- 
cue the  child  or  shut  herself  in  with  it.  But  she  thought, 
also,  of  the  folly  of  forcing  her  head  into  the  heavy  yoke 
she  had  escaped.  She  thought  of  the  hardships  the 
child  must  undergo. 

She  fought  the  decision  out  alone,  as  people  fight  out 
ever}^hing.  Her  soul  digested  this  problem  as  her  body 
digested  its  food,  resisting  and  overcoming  the  poisons 
it  contained,  gaining  strength  from  the  battle.  Maryla 
did  not  kill  herself,  nor  die  of  grief  or  shame.  She  did  not 
sink  into  a  life  of  evil  on  the  streets. 

But  the  need  of  money  drove  her  to  action.  She  re- 
turned to  Dutilh's,  and  said:  "I  am  well  now.  I  should 
be  glad  to  woik  once  more  by  your  shop." 

There  was  a  ferocity  now  in  her  beauty  in  place  of  the 
old  meekness,  and  Dutilh  made  no  difficulty  about  taking 
her  into  the  fold  again.  In  fact,  he  took  her  in,  although 
he  had  discharged  other  girls.  The  dull  season  was  be- 
ginning for  him,  and  he  was  about  to  go  abroad  to  ran- 
sack the  foreign  fashions. 

He  fled  again  from  Maryla's  efforts  to  explain.  He 
was  afraid  to  hear  either  her  truth  or  her  lies.  His  busi- 
ness was  designing  and  selling  beautiful  clothes  to  make 
women  more  beautifiil  or  less  homely.  He  avoided  as 
best  he  could  the  ugly  thoughts  and  the  facts  that  do  not 
drape  h'fe  gracefully.  He  told  Maryla  to  "shut  up  and 
get  busy." 

430 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

The  days  were  filled  with  grace  and  color  and  the  light 
chatter  of  people  who  did  not  know  Maryla's  tragedy. 
But  the  evenings  and  the  nights  were  crucifixions.  She 
beat  her  aching  breast  and  cried  for  her  baby  and  for  a 
home  to  keep  it  in.  She  understood  what  her  mother  had 
endured,  and  she  longed  to  go  back  to  her. 

She  imagined  that  Miriam  Balinsky  had  carried  home 
the  news  of  her  wickedness,  and  she  was  appalled  to  think 
how  her  deed  would  look  through  her  father's  eyes.  But 
she  never  dreamed  that  he  had  been  so  moved  as  to  de- 
clare her  dead  and  to  perform  the  rites  of  the  ancient 
ceremonial. 

He  slashed  the  lapels  of  his  coat  to  indicate  the  rending 
of  garments,  and  strewed  ashes  upon  his  head,  and  cut 
his  beard,  and  fasted,  and  devoted  seven  days  of  mourn- 
ing to  her  memory. 

When  at  last  Maryla  came  back  from  the  grave  she 
came  at  one  of  the  rare  times  when  her  mother  and  sister 
were  away. 

Dosia  had  been  making  eyes  at  a  yoimg  sidewalk  vender 
of  perfumed  tapes,  which  burned  with  a  helpful  odor. 
He  wanted  her  to  go  to  a  movie  show.  Her  father  had 
proclaimed  that  the  cinematographic  palaces  were  ante- 
rooms to  perdition,  but  Dosia  had  cried  till  he  let  her 
go  for  the  sake  of  peace.  Rosa  was  called  out  by  the 
illness  of  a  cousin  in  Forsythe  Street.  Pasinsky  escorted 
her.  Adam  was  left  alone,  save  for  the  old,  old  man, 
who  did  not  coimt. 

Poor  Sokalski  could  not  understand  wherein  he  had 
sinned  and  earned  his  unusual  shame.  He  had  toiled 
without  rest;  he  had  drunk  no  liquors;  had  never  gam- 
bled nor  swerved  from  fidelity;  he  had  kept  his  food 
kosher;  he  had  taken  his  children  to  the  temple;  he  had 
held  the  ceremonies  at  home  afterward;  he  had  guarded 
his  flock  from  evil  sights  and  companions;  and  he  had 
taught  them  to  labor  and  not  to  squander.  Yet  his 
beloved  Maryla  had  risen  from  her  place  and  hastened  to 

431 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

evil.  Her  feet  had  run  to  take  hold  on  hell.  Perhaps  he 
was  punished  because  of  his  pride  in  her  and  his  too 
great  love  of  her.  And  now  she  was  dead,  and  he  had 
mourned  for  her,  would  for  ever  mourn  for  her. 

Then  Maryla  came  home.  She  knocked  at  the  door. 
Adam  opened  it.  He  did  not  move.  He  stared  at  her 
as  if  she  were  a  ghost,  and  he  did  not  believe  in  ghosts. 

Maryla  stammered:  "Can  I  see  mamma  a  minute 
once?    And  Dosia,  please,  papa?" 

He  did  not  answer,  but  he  opened  the  door  wide  to  let 
her  see  that  they  were  not  there. 

"I'll  wait,  please,"  she  said,  and  started  forward. 

He  set  his  arm  across  the  door  like  a  bar.  She  noted 
then  the  slashing  of  his  lapels,  and  that  his  disordered 
beard  was  shorter,  and  his  hair.  She  seemed  to  under- 
stand. 

She  fell  back  in  horror.  She  was  dead,  then?  She 
almost  beUeved  it  herself.  She  cowered  as  if  the  Angel 
of  Death  were  in  the  hall  with  her.  Her  father  closed  the 
door;  she  heard  him  lock  it.  She  was  afraid  to  be  out 
there  in  the  hall  with  the  Angel  of  Death.  She  knocked 
frantically  on  the  door  like  a  child  in  mad  terror  of  the 
dark.  She  pleaded  to  be  taken  in.  She  might  have 
'  been  beating  on  the  lid  of  her  own  coffin. 

She  heard  some  one  coming  up  the  stairs,  laughing.  It 
was  none  of  her  people.  She  did  not  wish  to  be  found  in 
such  a  state.  She  ran  on  up  the  steps  to  the  roof.  She 
would  make  herself  dead  as  he  wanted  her  to  be.  She 
would  kill  herself,  throw  herself  from  the  roof. 

The  night  was  bewitching  with  June.  The  stars  were 
like  white  tulips  set  out  in  lines  on  a  vast  lawn.  They 
formed  great  letters  of  an  unknown  alphabet  with  an  un- 
deciphered  message.  The  Milky  Way  was  a  bed  of  lilies- 
of-the-valley.  The  rusted  tin  of  the  roof  was  plated  with 
silver. 

Maryla  was  afraid  of  the  too  persuasive  beauty  of  the 
winsome  sky.     She  hurried  to  the  edge  of  the  roof.     But 

432 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

it  was  walled  on  three  sides.  She  could  have  dropped  off 
into  the  rear  court,  but  she  did  not  want  to  die  in  that 
horrible  place. 

She  wliipped  out  her  hat-pin.  It  was  a  fitting  stiletto, 
since  he  had  given  it  to  her.  She  put  the  point  over  her 
heart,  but  she  could  not  nail  it  home. 

The  breeze  across  her  shoulder  seemed  to  plead  teas- 
ingly,  ridiculing  her  melodrama  with  a  tender  mocking 
"Ooh!  Ooh!"  It  had  the  merry  eloquence  of  Perry 
Merithew.  Everything  was  unimportant  except  to  re- 
joice in  life. 

The  hat-pin  fell  from  her  hands.  If  Perry  had  been 
there  she  would  have  flung  her  arms  about  him.  She 
longed  to  be 'surrounded  by  the  arms  of  love.  She  fltmg 
up  her  hands  to  the  sky  for  help.  The  moon  regarded 
her  with  indifference,  its  face  tilted  a  Httle  to  the  side. 
The  breeze  blew  kisses  on  the  nape  of  her  neck  and 
twitched  at  her  hair  amorously  and  ran  away.  She 
panted  with  loneliness.  But  no  help  came,  nor  any 
promise  of  companionship. 

She  pushed  the  hat-pin  slowly  back  through  her  hat  and 
went  down  the  stairs  and  passed  the  door  of  her  home 
without  pausing.  She  threaded  the  crowds  in  the  streets, 
climbed  a  north-bound  car,  and  went  back  to  the  hall  bed- 
room of  her  new  boarding-house,  where  no  one  knew  who 
she  was  or  what  her  life  had  been. 

The  next  morning  she  went  to  Dutilh's  again,  and  every 
morning.  And  there  Muriel  Schuyler  found  her  when 
she  came  back  at  last  from  Europe. 


CHAPTER  LII 


MURIEL'S  mother  had  planned  to  spend  the  season 
of  June  and  July  in  London,  but  Muriel  issued  a 
declaration  of  independence  and  secession.  She  had  had 
enough  of  Europe  for  the  time  being,  and  she  declared 
that  she  would  not  miss  the  international  polo  games 
at  Meadowbrook  for  all  the  world. 

She  loved  polo  and  had  played  the  game  herself  on 
Long  Island  with  impetuous  horsemanship,  though  her 
maUetry  was  irregiilar  and  she  had  raised  welts  on  several 
skulls,  mascuHne  and  feminine.  Winnie  Nicolls  would 
carry  to  his  grave  the  scar  of  a  cHp  she  gave  him  over  the 
eye,  but  he  insisted  that  his  heart  was  more  deeply 
bruised  by  her  careless  beauty. 

Winnie  NicoUs  was  a  candidate  for  the  position  of 
Number  Three  on  the  American  team.  He  wrote  Muriel 
that  he  had  no  chance  of  making  it  unless  everybody 
else  was  knocked  senseless,  but  she  did  not  read  that  part 
of  his  letter  to  her  mother.  The  mere  hint  of  a  desire  on 
Muriel's  part  for  a  glimpse  of  Winnie  NicoUs  was  enough 
to  send  her  mother  scurrying  back  to  America.  She  felt 
that  if  she  could  see  Muriel  wed  to  so  nice  a  boy  with  a 
fortune  so  supreme  she  could  fold  her  hands  and  grow  old 
comfortably. 

But  Winnie  Nicolls's  skill  as  a  polo-player  and  his  gifts 
with  a  whippy  stick  were  the  least  of  the  attractions 
America  held  forth  to  Muriel.  Her  emotions  were  a 
ragoUt  of  homesickness,  patriotism,  recrudescent  con- 
science, European  ennui,  and  curiosity  as  to  the  true 
sentimental  condition  of  Dr.  Clinton  Worthing. 

They  still  exchanged  occasional  letters,  but  the  inter- 

434 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

vals  between  had  lengthened  and  the  tone  had  grown 
more  and  more  formal.  Their  first  correspondence  had 
been  lengthy,  and  fire  had  been  played  with  perilously. 
The  fire  had  seemed  to  die  from  lack  of  fuel,  and  Worthing 
had  told  himself  that  he  had  Uved  down  his  folly. 

But  so  the  tree  said  as  the  winter  came  on  and  it  shook 
off  its  foolish  leaves  and  faced  the  wintry  blasts  under 
bare  poles.  And  yet  when  spring  came  again  it  found 
the  old  fooUshness  returning  in  the  guise  of  all  wisdom 
and  it  put  on  new  leaves  and  blazed  with  green  bravery. 

It  was  thus  with  Worthing  when  he  received  a  letter 
from  Muriel.     It  was  posted  in  New  York,  and  it  said: 

Dear  Clinton  Worthing, — I've  just  got  home,  and  I'm 
dying  to  see  you  and  talk  over  old  times.     Do  come  up  and  have 
tea,  won't  you?    Thank  you  so  much!    At  five  to-morrow,  then. 
Yours  hastily,  Muriel  S. 

She  had  written  "Schuyler"  in  full,  then  crossed  all 
of  it  out  but  the  initial.  She  had  drawn  her  pen  through 
that  once. 

The  young  man  felt  the  letter  as  warm  in  his  hands  as 
if  it  were  the  first  robin  with  a  Hve  coal  in  the  rusty  tongs 
of  its  wings. 

The  next  day  he  dressed  him  in  his  best  and  approached 
the  Schuyler  home  with  all  trepidation.  He  was  afraid 
of  the  street,  he  was  afraid  of  the  entrance,  he  was  afraid 
of  the  steps  and  of  the  door-bell.  He  had  called  there  once 
before,  nearly  a  year  ago,  for  one  of  her  tea-parties.  The 
hostess  had  stayed  away  and  the  guest  had  not  got  in. 

But  he  was  not  turned  away  this  time.  Muriel  had 
been  watching  for  him  from  a  window  whose  famous 
carvings  were  starred  in  the  Baedeker  of  the  United 
States.  She  did  not  wait  to  have  his  card  brought  to  her; 
he  had  hardly  surrendered  his  hat  when  he  heard  the 
patter  of  her  feet  on  the  vast  marble  stairway. 

435 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

She  paused  a  moment,  poised  as  if  for  flight,  then  came 
running  down  with  both  hands  outstretched.  It  was  to 
him  as  if  the  Winged  Victory  of  Samothrace  had  come  to 
life  and  was  hurrying  down  the  steps  of  the  Louvre. 
Muriel  lacked  the  wings,  but  the  head  and  arms  were  a 
more  than  fair  exchange. 

The  eagerness  of  her  welcome  and  the  gust  of  her 
approach  imsteadied  him,  and  when  they  sat  taking  tea 
in  the  Hbrary  he  did  not  know  what  he  was  drinking, 
unless  it  were  ambrosia. 

She  helped  his  folly  by  resimiing  that  meek  sit-at-your- 
feet  attitude  of  hers,  a  curious  mixture  of  impudence  and 
homage. 

The  upshot  of  her  chatter  was  that  they  were  to  re- 
sume at  once  their  combined  attack  on  the  misery  of  New 
York;  and  before  the  summer  was  over  they  were  to 
heal  all  the  sick,  straighten  all  the  crooked,  reunite  all 
parted,  and  enrich  all  the  poor. 

They  were  just  beginning  on  the  details  when  Winnie 
Nicolls  arrived  and  turned  Worthing's  nectar  to  gall. 
The  men  recognized  each  other  as  partners  in  the  wild 
and  vain  pursuit  of  Muriel  and  her  kidnappers.  It 
looked  as  if  they  had  begun  another  pursuit. 

Nicolls  had  his  car  outside,  and  he  had  come  to  take 
Muriel  out  to  Piping  Rock  for  dinner.  He  offered  to  drop 
Worthing  wherever  he  wished  to  be  dropped.  Worthing 
did  not  wish  to  be  dropped  anywhere ;  so  he  retired,  mur- 
muring something  about  other  engagements. 

Muriel  went  to  the  door  with  him,  and  for  an  au  revoir 
asked  him  to  go  in  the  Schuyler  car  to  the  first  polo  game 
and  sit  in  the  family  box.  He  accepted  with  rapture, 
till  he  learned  that  he  might  have  the  privilege  of  watch- 
ing Nicolls  play.  And  then  he  was  discomfited  again.  He 
knew  that  the  best  place  to  woo  a  woman  is  not  in  the 
grand  stand  at  her  side,  but  on  the  field  in  action  before 
her. 


CHAPTER  LIII 

THE  polo  game  drew  together  some  thirty  thousand  or 
more  spectators,  and  such  a  number  includes  of  neces- 
sity all  sorts  and  conditions  of  people.  Everybody  was 
there  that  was  anybody,  or  nobody,  or  betwixt  and  be- 
tween.    Even  Red  Ida  Ganley  was  there. 

Ida  had  soon  lived  up  the  money  she  had  wheedled 
from  Perry  Merithew.  His  exit  to  Eiirope  had  cut 
off  that  supply,  and  she  had  spent  a  lean  winter  among 
the  penurious  cabarets  of  Jersey  City,  Newark,  and 
Passaic. 

Through  the  underground  channels  of  her  world  she 
had  learned  that  Shang  Ganley  had  been  discharged  from 
prison  for  lack  of  evidence  against  him  in  the  affair  of 
the  attempted  kidnapping  of  Muriel  Schuyler.  Ida  had 
heard  that  he  had  come  forth  breathing  threats  to  get 
her  and  put  her  away  if  he  croaked  for  it.  She  led  a 
hunted  life,  watching  every  new-comer  at  every  table, 
wondering  if  he  might  prove  to  be  her  fond  assassin.  The 
strain  had  been  severe  because  she  did  not  want  to  die. 

At  length  she  was  inspired  to  a  great  plan.  She  man- 
aged to  get  in  touch  with  Achilles  Papademetrakopoulos, 
against  whom  also  the  ban  had  been  raised  by  a  politician 
who  needed  him  and  his  gang.  Ida  told  "Kill  Papa" 
that  she  had  a  grand  hunch.  She  had  dreamed  it,  so  it 
must  be  true.  If  Shang  would  let  bygones  remain  so, 
she  would  put  him  in  the  way  of  a  soft  thing,  and  he 
could  pull  down  a  coupla  thousand  bucks  without  half 
trying.  She  implied  that  she  was  an  intimate  friend  of 
a  dead  swell  guy  with  a  wad  of  cush.     If  Shang  would 

4.-^  7 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

listen  to  reason,  she  would  lead  this  guy  into  a  little  trap 
where  Shang  could  get  all  he  had. 

Achilles  found  Shang  in  such  a  state  of  poverty,  and 
hence  of  loneliness,  that  even  his  wife's  company  was  de- 
sirable. The  very  mention  of  money  was  an  atonement 
and  reconciliation.  He  had  missed  Ida  sadly,  particularly 
of  Saturday  nights,  when  she  had  been  wont  to  bring  in 
her  wages.     He  consented  to  forgive  her. 

So  Ida  resumed  her  place  as  his  helpmeet.  When 
she  looked  for  Perry,  however,  to  play  the  star  part  in 
her  little  drama,  she  found  him  still  missing,  still  skulking 
in  Europe. 

Shang  was  furious  at  Ida's  failure  to  make  good,  and 
he  took  her  for  the  grand  tour  aroimd  the  room. 

As  Melisande's  husband  disciplined  her,  so  Shang  dug 
his  hands  in  Ida's  copper  hair  and  gave  the  floor  a  much- 
needed  mopping.  But,  unlike  Melisande,  Ida  did  not 
wail,  "He  loves  me  no  more,  I  am  not  happy."  Ida  said: 
"Per  Gawd's  sake  leave  me  wool  enough  to  do  me  woik 
in!  How'm  I  goin'  to  oin  any  dough  in  a  cabaret  if  I'm 
bald-headed?" 

This  appealed  to  Shang's  intelligence;  he  flung  back 
in  her  face  such  tufts  of  copper  wire  as  he  found  in  his 
hands,  and  told  her  to  get  busy  and  bring  home  the  bacon 
or  he'd  slice  up  her  heart  and  give  it  to  the  cat. 

Ida  rearranged  what  he  had  left  of  her  hair,  visited  a 
corrector  of  black  eyes,  and  returned  to  her  art,  working 
industriously  at  song  and  dance  and  the  side-lines  of  her 
trade.  And  she  kept  her  husband  in  the  luxury  he  was 
accustomed  to,  against  the  great  day  of  Perry  Merithew's 
home-coming. 

The  polo  game  offered  an  opportunity  that  no  pick- 
pocket of  proper  regard  for  business  openings  could  let 
slip,  unless  the  police  issued  him  a  personal  invitation 
to  stay  away.  Shang  escaped  this  distinction,  and  he 
was  among  those  present. 

438 


Muriel  had  no  knowledge  of  the 


itrigues  going  on  about  her. 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

He  took  Ida  along  for  various  reasons.  In  the  first 
place,  she  paid  for  the  tickets;  in  the  second,  she  was 
an  adept  dip;  in  the  third,  she  would  be  useful  as  a  re- 
cipient of  what  he  might  snatch.  And  in  the  fourth,  he 
believed  that  an  indulgent  husband  should  occasionally 
give  his  wife  a  bit  of  recreation — not  enough  to  spoil  her, 
but  enough  to  give  him  something  to  refer  to  in  quarrel- 
time  as  a  proof  of  his  generosity  and  her  ingratitude. 

Shang  and  Ida  reached  Westbury  by  the  Long  Island 
Railroad  imder  the  river.  The  trains  were  sardined  with 
people.  The  roads  were  almost  choked  with  automo- 
biles, as  nimiberless  as  microbes  in  the  veins  of  a  typhoid 
patient. 

But  there  was  an  enforced  democracy  about  the  multi- 
tude. The  most  expensive  cars  had  to  be  parked  at  a 
distance  from  the  inclosure,  and  great  folk  as  well  as  small 
must  trudge  through  the  dusty  grass  to  the  turnstiles. 

Shang  and  Ida  were  among  the  box-holders.  They 
bought  theirs  of  a  noisy  person  who  sold  according  to 
height  and  reUability:  soap-boxes  of  soHd  structure 
naturally  brought  more  than  collapsible  biscuit-tins. 
Shang  was^  in  a  hang-the-expense-it's-my-wife's-money 
mood;  he  purchased  a  handsome  ex-tomato-box  which 
was  the  envy  of  all  the  neighbors. 

From  this  vantage-point  they  watched  the  throng  flow 
past — ^rich  man,  poor  man,  merchant,  chief;  all  the  world 
and  its  women.  Suddenly  Ida's  nails  nipped  Shang's 
arm: 

"Look!  There's  Muriel  Schuyler  comin'.  Who's  the 
guy  with  her?" 

"  It's  de  guy  we  scraped  off  against  de  El  pillar.  Don't 
leave  'em  lamp  us." 

Shang  and  Ida  turned  and  pressed  their  faces  against 
the  wire  barrier  till  Muriel  and  her  family  had  passed. 
If  Muriel  had  recognized  them  she  would  have  been  more 
frightened  than  they. 

Close  on  the  heels  of  Muriel  and  Worthing  came  Perry 

443 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Merithew,  hastening  to  get  a  word  with  Muriel,  but  con- 
stantly impeded  by  the  crowd.  Him  also  Ida  saw.  She 
nudged  Shang: 

"Dat's  me  man.     Dat's  Purry  Murrit'ew." 

"De  guy  you  was  goin'  to  collect  off?" 

"Uh-huh." 

"Well,  go  to  it!" 

"Not  here." 

"Here  an'  now!  Never  put  off  to  tuh-morra  de  guy 
you  kin  do  tuh-day."  He  emphasized  the  proverb  by 
bunting  her  off  the  box,  almost  upon  Perry's  toes.  Ida 
drawled,  "I  beg  your  pah-donnn!" 

When  Perry  ignored  her  she  said  in  her  most  refined 
manner,  "Sa-ay,  it's  a  wonner  you  wouldn'  speak  to  a 
fella." 

Perry  was  just  wincing  before  the  realization  that  Pet 
Bettany  was  ahead  of  him  and  waiting  for  him  with  her 
mother.  He  paused  to  be  rid  of  Ida,  whom  he  recognized 
at  the  second  stare. 

"Oh,  how  are  you!  I  haven't  seen  you  for  ever  so  long. 
Fine  day,  isn't  it?     Glad  to  have  seen  you." 

He  was  moving  on  when  she  checked  him: 

"Sa-ay,  where'd  you  get  the  idea  I  can  live  on  lovely 
weather?    I  gotta  have  a  little  talk  with  you." 

Seeing  him  resent  the  threatening  tone,  she  shifted 
to  a  whine:  "It's  not  a  hold-up;  it's  sumpun  you  got  a 
right  to  be  tipped  off  to.  I  done  you  a  good  toin  oncet, 
and  one  good  toin  desoives  another." 

"Again?"  he  sighed,  "Well,  telephone  me  at —  No, 
drop  me  a  line  at  my  club  and  I'll  be  delighted  to  call. 
Good-by." 

He  escaped  without  naming  the  club,  but  she  knew 
that  she  could  find  him. 

Ida  returned  to  her  spouse  with  the  good  news  that  she 
had  Perry  on  the  hook,  and  Shang  was  so  overjoyed,  so 
full  of  dreams  of  wealth,  that  he  spared  the  pocketbooks  of 
Ills  fellow-spectators. 

444 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

But  he  did  not  spare  the  American  team,  a  great-hearted 
quartet  of  famous  achievement  but  suffering  an  off  day 
and  an  off  year — which  is  for  the  good  of  the  sport,  but 
not  for  the  approval  of  the  sports. 

Shang  Ganley,  however,  hke  thousands  of  other  good 
Americans  who  had  never  seen  a  polo  game  before,  felt 
personally  affronted  by  every  bit  of  bad  luck,  by  every  bad 
guess,  and  he  yelled  through  the  wire  criticisms  that  made 
up  in  virulence  for  what  they  lacked  in  information. 

It  was  baseball  on  horseback  to  Shang,  and  he  was  as 
typically  bloodthirsty  as  any  fan  at  the  old  Polo  Grounds 
where  polo  was^ever  played. 

The  people  in  the  more  exclusive  inclosures  were  no 
less  excited.  Muriel  was  frantic.  She  had  Worthing's 
arm  black-and-blue  from  clutching  him  in  tense  moments 
following  a  throw-in  or  some  neck-and-neck  race  down 
the  fields  with  mallets  Hke  anxious  antennas. 

When  an  American  hooked  out  a  ball  from  a  m616e  and 
fed  it  to  a  compatriot,  and  he  to  another,  and  he  swinged  it 
in  a  white  rainbow  of  hope  to  the  goal-posts,  she  pounded 
her  father's  shoulders  raw  and  hugged  and  kissed  her 
mother. 

When  one  of  the  diabolically  ubiquitous  Englishmen 
turned  up  in  the  wrong  place  and  with  a  back-handed 
scoop  sent  the  ball  back  through  the  shuttling  legs  of  the 
joyous  ponies,  then  she  mourned  as  for  some  ineffable  loss. 
If  the  liberty  of  the  nation  had  been  involved  she  could 
hardly  have  felt  the  struggle  more  crucial. 

Between  chukkers  there  was  some  visiting.  The 
Schuyler  box  was  in  the  front  row  and  Winnie  NicoUs, 
who  was  in  uniform  as  a  substitute,  kept  leaning  on  the 
rail  to  deplore  the  rotten  luck. 

Perry  haunted  the  Schuyler  vicinage.  He  loved 
Muriel  in  her  open-air  mood  and  she  offered  complete 
contrast  with  the  others  of  his  fancy.  But  those  others 
seemed  to  haunt  him. 

445 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

He  saw  Maryla  in  one  of  the  slow-moving  columns. 
Her  eyes  burned  upon  him  fierceness;  he  could  not  trans- 
late whether  it  were  love  or  loathing.  Then  he  decided 
that  it  could  not  be  she.  Her  copper  hair  was  hidden  un- 
der a  splendid  and  expensive  hat,  and  her  costimie  was 
prematurely  fashionable.  He  did  not  know  that  she  had 
gone  back  to  Dutilh's  or  that  Dutilh  sent  out  his  models 
to  such  events  in  his  best  wares,  exquisite  sandwich-women 
without  placards. 

While  he  was  loitering  about  the  Schuyler  box  Aphra 
Shaler  sauntered  past  with  an  elderly  innocent  in  tow. 
She  glared  at  him  with  unmitigated  hatred,  and  her  girlish 
lips  spat  at  him  a  whispered  curse  that  amused  him 
immensely. 

Pet  Bettany  waylaid  him,  too.  She  had  seen  him  talk- 
ing with  Red  Ida  and  she  was  full  of  cynical  questions, 
which  he  evaded  by  a  quick  comment: 

"What,  in  God's  name,  have  you  done  to  your  hair? 
You've  painted  it,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"Why?  You  belong  ^ong  the  brunettes.  I  don't 
like  you  in  copper." 

"You  don't  like  me,  anjrway.  But  you  like  your  little 
Muriel  in  copper,  and  so  does  Winnie  Nicolls." 

"  Oh,  that's  the  way  the  wind  sets !  Well,  good  hunting, 
sister!" 

Pet  was  desperate.  She  even  visited  the  Schuyler  box, 
where  she  was  not  welcome,  because  she  covdd  not  other- 
wise get  near  to  Winnie  Nicolls.  She  saw  the  idolatry  in 
Perry  Merithew's  eyes  as  he  kept  them  on  Muriel.  Every- 
body saw  it  but  Muriel.  Even  Aphra  Shaler,  sauntering 
past  imobserved,  saw  it,  and  ground  her  teeth  in  jealousy. 

Muriel  had  no  knowledge  of  the  intrigues  going  on 
about  her.  All  that  was  important  to  her  was  that  her 
beloved  nation  was  losing  a  great  historic  battle.  She 
did  not  dream,  nor  did  any  one  there,  that  all  of  these 
foreign  cavaliers  so  fiercely  pursuing  this  rolling  white 

446 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

pellet  would  shortly  be  facing  the  screaming  black  shells 
in  a  polo  game  of  nations. 

Toward  the  last  of  the  game,  when  it  was  evident  that 
the  brave  rally  of  the  American  team  was  hkely  to  be  in 
vain,  Muriel  groaned: 

"It's  a  bad  year  for  our  poor  old  coimtry.  They've 
taken  our  polo  cup,  and  our  tennis  cup,  and  the  golf  cup. 
We've  only  got  the  America's  cup,  and  the  fourth  Sham- 
rock is  after  that." 

"And  I'll  bet  she  carries  it  back,"  said  Perry. 

Winnie  Nicolls  had  been  one  of  a  syndicate  to  build  a 
defender  of  the  venerable  old  beaker.  He  said:  "I'll  take 
that  bet  for  any  sum  you  want  to  lay." 

"You're  on,"  Perry  sighed.  "I'U  go  you  a  thousand. 
It's  the  only  thing  I  can  do  for  my  country,  because  I 
always  lose." 

He  neither  lost  nor  won  that  bet,  for  the  imdreamed-of 
Servian  -  Austrian  -  German  -  Russian  -  Belgian  -  French- 
Enghsh-Turkish  war  sent  the  yacht-race  agley  along  with 
countless  other  human  schemes.  Perry  Merithew  would 
not  have  been  there,  anyway,  because,  before  there  was 
any  world  war,  a  private  war  of  his  own  had  left  him  dead 
on  the  inglorious  battle-field  of  a  slum  roof,  with  eight 
little  tufts  of  copper-colored  hair  in  his  clutch. 

That  hair  at  present  was  imder  the  hat  of  one  of  the 
women  at  the  game,  her  only  excitement  now  in  the 
two  rival  riders  galloping  like  Siamese  twins  on  Siamese 
ponies,  both  yearning  forward  in  frenzied  emulation  for 
the  tiny  dusty  willow  planet  that  scudded  eagerly  across 
the  green  in  perfect  obedience  to  whichever  mallet  smote 
it  last.  It  might  have  been  the  white  soul  of  a  woman 
who  meant  well,  but  went  where  the  whacks  of  destiny 
shot  her  among  the  hoofs  of  the  ponies  of  the  gods  playing 
polo. 


CHAPTER    LIV 

WHEN  a  bad  man  like  Peny  Merithew  makes  up  his 
soul  to  become  a  good  man,  he  is  apt  to  find  that 
he  must  first  do  a  nimiber  of  deeds  that  he  would  have 
thought  far  beneath  him  before.  For  there  are  many- 
things  that  wicked  people  hold  very  dear,  but  good  people 
must  cast  aside. 

So,  going  on  up  higher,  good  people  feel  themselves  far 
above  the  doing  of  many  things  which  they  call  cruel  and 
inhuman  among  themselves,  but  which  they  freely  accept 
as  permissible  and  even  adorable  in  the  gods. 

Perry  Merithew  was  fascinated  less  by  Muriel's  beauty 
than  by  her  wholesomeness.  He  wanted  to  keep  her 
good.  Her  goodness  was  of  the  only  sort  that  could 
interest  him.  She  was  athletic,  foolhardy,  flippant,  fash- 
ionable, laughterful,  quick-tempered,  and  domineering. 
Perry  felt  no  desire  to  flirt  with  Miuiel.  So  far  as  he 
could  tell,  she  had  never  tried  to  flirt  vnth  him.  He  re- 
garded her  as  sacredly  as  he  could  regard  anything  or 
anybody,  and  the  love  of  her  made  him  solemn.  The 
worst  of  this  was  that  the  moment  he  grew  solemn  he 
bored  her  and  she  dropped  him.  He  felt  that  he  could 
only  keep  her  by  marrying  her.  But  he  could  only  marry 
her  by  freeing  himself  from  his  old  ties,  vicious  and 
virtuous. 

His  wife  was  a  decided  obstacle  of  the  latter  sort.  He 
had  failed  to  shake  her  off  by  his  years  of  disloyalty. 
How  could  he  hope  to  frighten  her  by  turning  good? 

This  Mercutio  was  developing  into  a  very  grave  man 
with  all  these  profoimd  thoughts.     One  thing  was  sure: 

448 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

he  was  weary  of  his  old  ways.  A  cynic  might  have  said 
that  the  whole  change  in  his  heart  was  mere  fatigue  with 
worn-out  amusements,  and  that  he  was  less  in  love  with 
virtue  than  fed  up  on  vice. 

Monogamy,  indeed,  however  otten  called  monotony, 
has  never  proved  more  tiresome  than  Hfe  on  an  eternal 
merry-go-round.  It  was  King  Solomon  who  had  the 
most  women  who  found  Hfe  the  vainest.  For  all  mis- 
tresses are  the  same  mistress  in  new  dresses  and  new 
moods,  as  all  xvines  are  the  same  alcohol,  all  banquets  the 
same  bill  of  fare  twisted. 

When  a  man  is  seen  ordering  ice-water  and  guzzling 
milk  with  relish,  it  may  be  no  proof  at  all  of  a  reformation 
or  a  wholesome  appetite;  it  may  be  evidence  solely  that 
he  is  so  unused  to  them  that  they  have  a  wicked  tang  or 
that  they  are  a  mere  remedy  to  his  fever. 

In  any  case,  here  was  Perry  Merithew  obsessed  by  a 
longing  for  Muriel  Schuyler.  He  wanted  to  make  her  his 
less  than  he  wanted  to  make  himself  hers.  He  was  con- 
vinced that  he  wanted  to  be  good.  He  yearned  to  win 
Muriel  Schuyler,  not  by  dragging  her  down  to  his  level, 
but  by  dragging  himself  up  to  hers. 

If  the  scramble  aloft  involved  kicking  several  old 
friends  in  the  face,  the  best  he  could  do  for  them 
was.  to  call  out,  "Look  sharp,  below  there!"  and,  "So 
sorry!" 

The  first  victim  of  his  upward  effort  had  been  Maryla 
Sokalska,  who  had  been  the  last  victim  of  his  old  psychol- 
ogy. He  was  not  proud  of  his  treatment  of  Maryla,  but 
he  was  glad  to  be  free  of  her.  He  assumed  that  Maryla 
was  a  closed  chapter  in  his  memories,  and  he  trusted 
that  he  covdd  delete  certain  others  of  his  dramatis  per- 
soncB  as  readily. 

First,  there  was  his  once-beloved  and  all-too-faithful 
wife.  She  had  long  ago  given  up  storming  at  Perry.  She 
had  almost  recovered  from  caring,  though  the  dreary  ache 
of  her  pride  awoke  in  the  depths  when  she  heard  of  some 

449 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

latest  escapade  of  his,  when  she  realized  that  everybody 
realized  that  she  was  ill-treated. 

That  is  the  ugliest,  meanest  part  of  the  business  of  in- 
fidelity, the  loneliness  and  the  contempt  or  pity  it  bestows 
on  the  neglected  partner. 

Mrs.  Merithew  could  not  bring  herself  to  the  consolation 
of  playing  the  same  game  and  matching  intrigue  with 
intrigue.  She  had  a  son  growing  up,  and  he  was  growing 
away  from  the  home,  too.  He  had  reached  the  age  when 
he  would  fall  heir  to  the  same  temptations  that  had  gov- 
erned his  father's  life.  She  saw  in  the  young  man  the 
graces  that  had  made  Perry  so  fascinating,  made  his 
delicate  brutalities  forgivable.  She  was  afraid  for  the 
boy  and  she  could  not  find  a  way  to  protect  him  from  life. 

An  early  marriage  for  love  would  not  guarantee  him. 
Perry  had  married  her  for  love,  and  it  was  not  long  before 
he  had  foimd  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  the  tritest  and 
stupidest  of  times. 

Mrs.  Merithew  felt  aged  and  terrified  and  no  less  forlorn 
because  the  desert  reef  where  she  was  marooned  was  one 
of  the  most  comfortable  stmimer  homes  on  Long  Island. 
She  could  not  keep  Perry  Second  even  there;  he  preferred 
New  York  in  spite  of  its  heat,  and  she  feared  that  he  was 
pursuing  some  of  the  pretty  tradespeople  who  use  musical 
comedy  as  a  place  of  advertisement.  So  Mrs.  Merithew 
made  an  excuse  to  stay  in  town  except  over  the  week-ends. 

She  was  in  a  panic  concerning  her  son,  and  longing  for 
help,  when  her  butler  rejoiced  her  heart  by  saying  that  her 
husband  had  telephoned  that  he  would  be  dining  at  home. 
She  decided  that  Heaven  had  answered  her  prayers  and 
sent  her  prodigal  back  to  her  aid.  She  hurried  off  to  a 
coiffeur  and  had  her  hair  remodeled  in  the  latest  school 
of  architecture.  She  ordered  everything  that  Perry  best 
liked  to  eat  and  drink,  and  she  took  from  the  lavender  of 
memory  the  little  smiles  and  expressions  that  had  once 
delighted  him. 

Perry  was  very  gracious  at  the  table  and  she  thought 

4SO 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

that  the  three  of  them  made  rather  a  fine  family  group. 
But  the  young  man  treated  his  father  with  a  comradeship 
in  cynicism  that  made  her  blood  run  cold.  Her  one  con- 
solation was  that  Perry  rebuked  him,  and  read  him  a 
moral  lecture  of  a  sobriety  that  astounded  Mrs.  Perry, 
But  it  left  the  junior  Perry  smiling  broadlier  than  ever,  and 
when  Perry  finished  his  Polonial  sermon  the  young  Laertes 
winked  at  him  and  said: 

"That's  good  old  home  stuff,  Pop,  and  you  read  it 
better  than  you  could  if  you  meant  it."  He  rose  and 
went  to  his  mother's  chair.  "Good  night,  little  girl.  I 
must  leave  you,  but  beware  of  this  interesting  stranger." 

He  kissed  his  mother,  v^dnked  again  at  his  father,  and 
escaped  to  some  mj'^sterious  engagement. 

Perry  and  Mrs.  Perry  looked  at  each  other  in  despair. 
Perry  was  the  more  shocked  of  the  two.  They  adjourned 
to  the  drawing-room,  where  they  sat  at  the  open  window 
in  the  dark,  listening  to  the  lazy  hoof -beats  of  a  dawd- 
ling hansom  horse  or  the  occasional  groan  of  a  motor- 
horn  on  the  sparsely  frequented  Avenue. 

Perry  sent  many  yards  of  pale-blue  ribbon  from  his 
cigar  out  on  the  warm  air  before  he  found  courage  to  say: 

*T  want  to  have  a  little  serious  talk  with  you,  my 
dear." 

"I'm  listening." 

"I've  been  a  rotter  to  you  and  I'm  well  aware  of  it. 
I'm  going  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf  and  settle  down." 

The  candle  that  he  lighted  in  her  heart  he  snuffed  out 
at  once. 

"You've  been  a  brick.  You've  stood  more  than  you 
have  any  reason  to  stand  and  you've  taken  punishment 
like  a  soldier.  I'm  not  going  to  punish  you  any  longer. 
You're  too  sick  of  the  sight  of  me  to  want  me  round  the 
place  again.  I've  piled  up  more  grudges  than  you  could 
ever  forget.  So  I'm  going  to  give  you  the  only  gift  in  my 
power — your  freedom." 

He  thought  he  heard  a  little  gasp  of  protest,  and  he 

451 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

hurried  on:  "You're  young  and  beautiful,  and  you've  a 
right  to  your  place  in  the  sun.  You  take  a  divorce  and 
go  your  way,  and  I'll  go  mine.  You're  richer  than  I  am, 
but  I'll  make  a  settlement  on  you  that  will  put  you  up 
among  the  pictures.  And  I'll  set  aside  a  fund  for  the 
boy.  It  won't  leave  me  much,  but  I'll  manage  with  it 
or  go  to  work  and  earn  something  to  take  its  place. 
What  do  you  say?" 

She  said  nothing  at  all,  but  he  heard  her  crying  softly 
in  the  dark.  He  was  touched,  and  he  reached  out  to 
seize  her  hand.  If  only  that  touch  could  have  thrilled 
him  as  once  it  had!  He  drew  his  chair  close  to  her,  and 
she  wept  on  his  shoulder,  sobbing: 

'T  don't  want  a  divorce.  I  want  you.  I  want  my 
home." 

He  patted  her  farther  shoulder  as  one  would  pat  a  faith- 
ful old  sick  hound,  and  he  said:  "But  I  can't  give  you 
myself,  my  dear.  A  man  can't  do  what  he  ought  to  do. 
At  least  I  can't.  When  I  find  out  that  there's  something 
I  ought  to  do,  it  becomes  impossible.  I'm  sorry.  I'm 
ashamed.  But  how  can  I  help  it  ?  Life's  a  nuisance,  and 
I  wish  I  were  dead." 

"Don't  say  that!"  she  pleaded  with  superstitious 
panic.  "You  mustn't  say  that.  Something  might  hap- 
pen." 

She  clung  to  him  and  kept  his  arm  about  her,  but  he 
sat  glowering.  He  felt  angry  at  himself,  yet  angrier  at 
her,  and  angriest  at  life.  A  passer-by  seeing  their  blended 
shadows  would  have  thought  them  lovers. 

It  would  have  simplified  everything  divinely  if  they 
could  have  returned  to  that  blessed  estate.  But  their  em- 
brace was  a  burlesque,  for  their  souls  could  not  reach 
each  other.  He  was  a  man  that  lived  and  loved  on  thrills; 
and  she  could  not  thrill  him.  Almost  any  other  woman 
in  his  arms  would  have  stirred  some  warmth  in  his  heart, 
even  an  ugly  one;  for  if  all  cats  are  gray  in  the  dark,  all 
women  were  pink  to  Perry  Merithew.     Even  his  wife 

452 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

would  have  been  if  he  had  not  known  her  name.  But  be- 
cause she  had  a  right  to  his  fire  and  the  only  right,  she 
was  the  only  one  who  froze  his  soul. 

He  hated  himself  for  this  more  than  she  did,  but  even 
his  wrath  did  not  kindle  him.     It  made  him  sick. 

It  was  Perry's  nature  to  grow  frantic  with  restlessness 
when  he  was  not  happy.  He  endured  his  wife's  devotion 
for  a  few  minutes,  then  he  felt  a  womanish  desire  to  tear 
his  hair,  a  mannish  desire  to  run  away  from  gloom. 

He  broke  his  wife's  clasp  and  paced  the  floor,  saying: 
"  It's  no  use.  Blame  me  all  you  will,  but  I  can't  be  happy 
here,  and  I  can't  make  you  happy.  There's  a  chance  for 
us  both  if  you'll  let  me  go.  I  want  to  do  the  right  thing 
by  you,  but  if  we  stay  married  I'll  go  on  as  I  have,  only 
worse.     If  you  let  me  go  FU  be  as  sober  as  a  judge." 

Her  answer  was  a  dismal  little  chuckle:  "No,  Perry, 
no!  I  know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself.  Better 
than  that  other  woman  does,  too.  If  she's  your  kind  you'll 
tire  of  her  qmcker  than  you  tired  of  me.  If  she's  honest — 
and  I  don't  see  how  she  can  be  and  accept  your  atten- 
tions— you'd  break  her  heart  as  you  did  mine.  I  ought 
to  let  you  marry  her  just  out  of  revenge,  I  suppose,  and 
I  might  if  it  weren't  for  the  boy.  But  he's  going  to  have 
a  home,  and  at  least  a  nominal  father  as  long  as  you 
live.  So  if  you're  going  to  settle  down,  settle  down  to 
that.     Now  go  tell  her  so.     Good  night!" 


CHAPTER  LV 

PERRY  went  glttmly  from  the  house,  cursing,  as  bad 
people  do,  the  inconceivable  wickedness  of  the  good. 
He  walked  rapidly  down  the  Avenue,  swinging  his  light 
stick  with  fury.  The  Avenue  was  lonely  and  dark  as  a 
small  town  street.  He  felt  the  need  of  lights  and  life. 
He  remembered  that  he  had  promised  "Red  Ida"  Ganley 
that  he  would  meet  her  at  Madison  Square  Garden. 

She  had  run  him  down  by  telephone  that  day,  and  he 
had  consented  to  see  her  because  it  was  easier  to  make 
and  break  a  promise  than  to  refuse  her  insistence.  He 
had  not  the  faintest  intention  of  keeping  the  engagement, 
or  of  ever  seeing  her  or  her  sort  again. 

But  he  was  in  a  fume  of  discontent.  He  had  planned 
to  run  straight.  He  had  tried  to  do  the  right  thing  by 
his  wife,  and  she  had  refused  him  the  little  favor  of  a 
divorce.     How  could  he  run  straight  if  she  clung  to  him? 

He  was  sick  of  good  women  already.  They  had  no 
sense.  They  did  not  understand  the  world.  He  would 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  them. 

He  whistled  to  a  taxicab  and  stepped  in,  telling  the 
driver  to  take  him  to  Madison  Square  Garden.  At  that 
time  the  huge  arena  was  given  over  to  dancing  under  the 
auspices  of  the  amazing  Castles,  whose  Castle  House  had 
not  sufficed  to  provide  space  for  the  maxixe  mania. 

He  found  Ida  waiting.  He  did  not  notice  that  she  left 
the  side  of  a  young  thug  to  run  to  him.  He  checked 
his  hat  and  stick  and  took  her  into  his  arms  for  the  dance 
that  was  pouring  from  the  band. 

Ida  was  dressed  in  a  quaint  burlesque  of  the  latest 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

fashion,  and  her  hair  was  piled  up  on  her  head  like  a 
battered  copper  kettle  turned  upside  down.  She  was  so 
small  that  Perry  saw  mostly  her  hair.  He  decided  that 
it  had  been  bom  plain  red,  but  had  been  tampered  with. 
She  danced  well  in  a  common  cabaretish  way,  and  her 
vulgarities  of  speech  amused  him  more  than  better  diction 
could  have  done  at  the  time,  for  he  was  in  a  rebel  mood. 

Perry  was  not  addicted  to  alcoholic  refuges.  Where 
other  wastrels  would  go  out  and  get  drunk,  he  would  seek 
a  flirtation.  He  laughed  at  Ida  for  a  while,  and  recognized 
with  smiling  contempt  that  she  was  trying  to  coquet  with 
him.     He  said: 

"What  would  that  ferocious  husband  of  yours  think  of 
your  flirting  with  me?" 

"Me  floit?"  said  Ida.  "It  'd  soive  him  right  if  I  was 
to  take  up  with  you  poimanent." 

Perry  winced  at  the  thought,  but  he  answered,  with  the 
grace  of  the  complete  courtier,  "That  would  be  too  much 
to  hope." 

"Say,  are  you  stringin'  me?"  said  Ida.  "I  ain't  quite 
got  your  ntunber  yet." 

"I  doubt  if  I  have  one,"  said  Perry. 

"Everybody's  got  a  number  and  a  goat,"  said  Ida,  to 
whom  yesterday's  slang  was  to-day's  classic.  "Your 
number  is  thoiteen  if  I  don't  wise  you  up." 

"Then  for  Heaven's  sake  wise  me  quick,"  said  PeiTy, 
who  was  tiring  of  her  paucity  of  charm.  "You  said 
something  about  an  important  secret  or  something.  I 
don't  want  to  hurry  you — ^but  I  have  another  engage- 
ment." 

"You  got  a  date  to  take  a  ride  in  a  hoise  if  you  don't 
listen  tuh  me,"  said  Ida. 

' '  A  hearse !  Ugh !' '  Perry  mocked.  * '  Save  me !  Save 
me!" 

But  Ida,  with  a  sudden  shudder  that  startled  him, 
muttered:  "Keep  on  dancin',  but  woik  your  way  round 
to  the  door.    We  gotta  beat  it.    He's  here  lookin'  for  me. 

455 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

I  don't  think  he's  sor  me  yet,  but  he's  lookin'  the  bunch 
over." 

"And  who  is  he?"  said  Perry. 

"WTiere  can  we  go  where  we  can  have  a  talk  without 
nobody  distoibin'  us?"  said  Ida,  evasively. 

"That  is  a  problem,"  said  Perry,  warily.  "I  could 
hardly  take  you  to  my  club." 

"You  couldn't  come  to  my  flat,  could  you?  or  could 
you?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Perry,  with  great  positiveness. 
Then  he  remembered  that  a  taxicab  was  a  convenient 
place  for  uninterrupted  conferences.  He  suggested  this, 
and  Ida  agreed  heartily.  He  collected  his  hat  and  stick 
and  they  entered  a  taxicab.  He  told  the  chauffeur, 
"Just  drive  aroiuid,"  trusting  him  to  know  where  that 
was. 

A  policeman  in  plain  clothes,  recognizing  them  both, 
took  a  step  in  their  direction,  but  decided  not  to  interfere. 
He  made  a  mental  note  that  if  Perry  Merithew  sent  in  an 
alarm  that  he  had  been  robbed,  he  would  hunt  at  once 
for  Red  Ida,  the  well-known  "dip."  And  he  set  the 
gossip  going  in  select  police  circles  that  Perry  Merithew 
must  have  lost  his  mind  or,  worse  yet,  his  money,  to  be 
taking  up  with  a  cheap  crook  like  Ida  Ganley. 

But  here  he  was  in  taxi-communion  with  her.  Ida  was 
eager  to  know  how  a  swell  guy  like  he  was  made  love  to  a 
dame.  The  situation  pleased  her  not  only  as  an  ambitious 
woman  eager  to  learn,  but  also  as  a  budding  dramatist. 

Ida  had  constructed  a  scenario  with  Perry  Merithew  as 
the  star.  It  was  not  her  plan  to  put  Perry  Merithew  into 
the  hearse  she  spoke  of;  that  would  end  his  value.  It 
was  her  scheme  to  use  the  obsolete,  but  never  quite 
forgotten,  badger  game.  Ida  would  entice  Perry  to  some 
try  sting-place,  and  there  Shang  Ganley  would  surprise 
them,  play  the  injured  husband,  produce  a  brace  of  re- 
volvers, and  threaten  to  avenge  his  ruined  home  with  a 
murder  or  two.     Ida  would  dramatically  plead  for  her 

4S6 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

paramour,  and  Shang  would  slowly  relent  on  condition 
that  Perry  paid  dearly  for  the  husband's  broken  heart. 

The  beauty  of  this  venerable  device  is  that  the  victim 
is  the  last  one  on  earth  to  desire  police  participation, 
and,  once  caught,  he  can  be  levied  on  again  and  again. 
He  is  as  good  as  a  bond  with  coupons  to  cut  off  every 
six  months. 

Ida  was  in  love  with  the  plan.  The  only  difficulty  had 
been  to  lure  her  prey  to  her  lair.  That,  as  she  had  told 
Shang  when  they  discussed  the  production,  wotdd  not  be 
easy. 

"That's  some  job,  believe  me !"  she  had  said.  "That  '11 
take  a  bit  of  loorin'.  A  swell  bear-cat  like  him  ain't 
goin'  to  fall  for  no  cheap  bunk.  Well,  's  I  's  sayin',  I 
woim  me  way  into  Purry's  confidunce  by  wamin'  him  of 
a  turrible  plot.  He'll  be  turrible  grateful.  Maybe  he'll 
offer  me  money,  and  if  he  does  I'll  spoin  it." 

"O  Gawd!" 

"  I  know  how  it  hoits,"  she  said,  "  but,  in  the  foist  place, 
it  would  simpully  roon  everything  if  he  suspicioned  any- 
thing. In  the  second  place,  are  we  playin'  for  big  stakes, 
or  are  we  pikin'?" 

"They  can't  come  too  big  for  me,"  Shang  murmured, 
with  glittering  eyes.  "If  he  was  to  spiU  a  million  in  me 
mit  it  wouldn't  meet  me  expenses." 

"Ah,  cut  out  the  powder- woiks,"  Ida  growled.  "If 
ever  you  was  to  see  a  hunderd  dollars  all  at  once  you'd 
go  blind.  You  leave  Puny  Murrit'ew  tuh  me,  and  try  to 
be  on  time  when  I  send  for  you  and  speak  your  piece 
like  I  loined  it  to  you  and  throw  a  good  scare  into  him." 

And  now  the  first  step  in  her  campaign  was  achieved. 
Ida  had  lassoed  her  prey  and  she  was  ready  to  throw  the 
scare  into  him.  Perry  did  not  take  advantage  of  the 
opportunity  to  make  love  to  Ida.     His  first  remark  was: 

"And  now  the  secret,  please." 

"Well,  listen,"  Ida  began,  with  a  sigh.  "You  know  I 
15  457 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

put  you  hep  to  the  kidnappin'  of  Miss  Schuyler."  He 
nodded.  "And  all  I  got  out  of  it  was  a  few  plunks. 
Well,  what  me  husband  gave  me  was  the  pirtiest  little 
beatin'  up  a  lady  ever  took  off  anybody.  O'  course  I 
sv/ore  I  never  split  about  the  kidnappin',  but  he  lays  it 
up  against  me,  and  still  more  he  lays  it  up  against  you." 

"How  did  he  find  out  I  was  concerned  in  it?"  Perry 
e^ked.     "You  must  have  told  him." 

"Told  me  eye!"  said  Ida.  "I'm  liable  to  do  that, 
ain't  I,  and  get  a  knife  in  me?  Some  them  other  gtmmen 
must  'a'  reco'nized  you  when  you  held  'em  up  and  took 
Muriel  away  from  'em.  Anyway,  they're  on  to  you  and 
they're  after  you." 

This  was  not  so  pleasant.  Perry  ceased  to  patronize. 
New  York  has  its  vendetta  cult  as  well  as  Sicily,  and  peo- 
ple are  found  dead  about  town  with  disconcerting  fre- 
quency. Also,  the  dynamite  bomb  was  an  almost  weekly 
punctuator  of  the  city's  calm,  and  it  was  not  always  con- 
fined to  small  shopkeepers. 

Perry  was  no  coward,  but  it  is  uncomfortable  never 
to  know  where  one  is  to  be  struck,  by  whom  or  when. 

He  said,  as  jauntily  as  he  could:  "And  what  do  these 
gentlemen  intend  to  do  to  me — ^kill  me?" 

"Oh,  I,  donlt  think  they'd  go  quite  as  far  as  that," 
said  Ida. 

"Then  I  n^eedn't  worry,"  said  Perry,  "so  long  as  they 
don't  kill  me  entirely.  Just  tell  the  gentlemen  that  I 
carry  a  revolver  and  I  shoot  quick  and  straight." 

"Then  they'd  get  you  arrested  under  the  SulHvan  law." 

"Then  teU  me  their  names  and  I'll  have  the  police 
gather  them  in  in  advance." 

"Police  nothin'.  There's  too  many  in  the  gang.  The 
cops  can't  get  'em  all.  Besides,  what  evidunce  you  got 
outside  o'  my  woid?  And  I  wouldn't  dast  go  to  the 
covut.     They'd  get  me  sure,  and  you,  too." 

"Then  what  do  you  advise?"  said  Perry. 

"You  leave  it  to  mamma.    The  plot  ain't  quite  settled 

4S8 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

yet.  One  of  their  best  men  ain't  out  o'  jail  till  a  day 
or  two.  As  soon  as  they  decide  I'll  know  and  I'U  tele- 
phone you,  and  you  meet  me  and  I'll  teU  you  how  you  can 
toin  the  whole  bimch  over  to  the  cops  without  your  name 
appearin'.     Do  you  get  me?" 

"I'm  not  sure,"  said  Perry;  "but  I'm  sure  I'm  ever  so 
much  obliged  to  you,  and  if  a  little  money  would  be  of 
any  use  to  you — ■" 

Money  is  one  of  the  hardest  things  on  earth  to  say  Na 
to.     But  Ida  was  resolute.     She  spumed  the  proffer. 

"But  why  do  you  do  me  this  great  favor  gratis?"  said 
Perry. 

"Because — ^because — "  Ida  took  refuge  in  popular 
song,  '"Because  I  got  a  feelin'  in  my  heart  for  you.' " 

She  leaned  against  him  and  Hfted  her  face  so  that  if 
he  should  be  inclined  to  kiss  her  he  would  be  caused  the 
minimum  of  toil.  Perry's  generous  heart  could  hardly 
ever  resist  such  an  appeal  for  alms.  He  knew  that  Ida 
was  languishing  for  a  caress,  but  he  felt  stingy.  Still,  he 
could  hardly  deny  her  some  token  of  gratitude.  He  bent 
and  printed  a  light  glancing  blow  on  her  nearer  cheek- 
bone, and  said,  with  forced  gratitude: 

"How  can  I  ever  thank  you?" 

Ida  sighed  with  deep  disillusionment.  "And  he's  the 
guy  who  made  love-makin'  famous!" 

Perry  did  not  understand;  he  spoke  impatiently.  "I'm 
really  infinitely  obliged.     I  won't  forget  it." 

"And  I'U  keep  me  eye  and  me  ears  peeled,"  said  Ida. 
"And  I'll  let  you  know  the  minute  there's  anything  doin'. 
I'll  telephone  you.  And  as  soon  as  you've  hold  from  me 
you  jump  Hke  I  tell  you  to.     If  you  don't,  good  night!" 

"Good  night?"  said  Perry  "Are  you  getting  out 
here?" 

"No;  you  might  take  me  to  the  Poisian  Garden.  I 
just  rave  over  Joan  Sawyer." 

Perry  could  not  refuse  her  so  modest  a  request,  and  he 
told  the  driver  to  take  them  to  the  Persian  Garden.     He 

459 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

bade  Ida  good  night  on  the  sidewalk.  But  she  said  that 
3.  lady  could  hardly  go  up  alone.  He  took  her  up  with 
the  calm  martyrdom  of  a  gentleman.  He  danced  with 
her  once  or  twice.  He  saw  several  important  people  that 
he  knew,  and  he  abandoned  Ida  and  fled.  But  here,  also, 
a  detective  had  seen  him  with  Ida  and  was  tempted  to 
warn  him  against  her,  but  decided  instead  to  confirm  the 
gossip  already  flying  about  the  various  precinct  stations. 


CHAPTER  LVI 

MURIEL  was  spending  an  unusual  amount  of  her  time 
in  town  this  summer.     She  had.  been  abroad  so  long 
that  New  York  attracted  her  as  a  sort  of  foreign  city. 

The  relief  of  one  misfortunate  soul  always  brought  for- 
ward two  others  to  relieve,  and  Miiriel's  hopes  began  to 
flag. 

She  was  attacking  the  ocean  with  a  spoon,  and  she  was 
exhausting  herself  faster  than  the  supply  of  salt  water. 
Also  she  found  that  her  accounts  of  her  work  exhausted 
her  listeners  rapidly. 

One  person  alone  never  wearied  of  Muriel's  adventures, 
and  that  was  Dr.  Clinton  Worthing.  He  had  only  one 
fault  to  find  with  Muriel,  and  that  was  her  father's  wealth. 
She  was  as  simple  and  sound  as  any  middle-class  girl;- 
her  costimies  were  not  elaborate,  and  her  jewelry,  if  she 
had  any,  shone  chiefly  in  the  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of 
the  safe-deposit  vault. 

But  she  was  herself  in  a  safe-deposit  vault.  She  was 
like  a  princess  peering  through  a  grille  and  flirting  with 
an  apprentice  outside.  They  could  talk,  their  eyes  could 
make  love,  their  hands  could  meet,  and  there  was  the 
maddening  possibility  of  kissing;  the  fierce  danger  that 
he  might  not  be  able  always  to  keep  his  hands  from  em- 
bracing her  through  the  bars  and  playing  Pyramus  to 
her  Thisbe.  But  he  could  not  drag  her  through  the 
chinks  of  her  wealth,  and  he  could  not  climb  through. 

He  used  to  find  himself  praying  that  some  great  finan- 
cial earthquake  might  destroy  the  Schuyler  wealth  and 
fling  the  walls  to  the  ground.     But  while  the  cruelly  pro- 

461 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

longed  hard  times  were  shattering  other  fortunes,  they 
seemed  not  even  to  shake  down  a  capstone  from  the  high 
castle  of  Jacob  Schuyler.  They  managed,  however,  to 
injure  Worthing's  practice  and  to  make  it  hard  to  collect 
what  Httle  he  could  earn.  People  could  not  even  afford 
to  be  ill,  except  on  credit.  So  Worthing  had  leisure  enough 
to  cultivate  Muriel. 

One  day  he  and  she  were  coming  away  together  from 
the  hospital  where  Happy  Hanigan  was  swearing  at  his 
apparatus  and  refusing  to  believe  their  latest  promises 
that  he  should  soon  be  unfettered.  Hot  as  the  day  was, 
Muriel  and  Worthing  walked.  It  absorbed  so  much 
more  time.     Their  errancy  led  them  into  Fifth  Avenue. 

As  Pet  Bettany  had  said,  a  woman  can  never  have 
clothes  enough,  and,  though  Muriel's  wardrobes  bulged 
with  unworn  frocks,  she  could  not  keep  from  pausing  at 
nearly  every  window  to  cry  out  in  longing  for  some  hat 
or  gown  dangled  there  as  bait. 

Poor  Worthing  felt  his  poverty.  He  could  not  provide 
her  with  things  like  these,  and  her  appetite  was  evidently 
insatiable.  Before  one  hat  perched  like  a  cockatoo  be- 
hind a  shining  plate-glass  window  she  paused  and  wailed: 

"Oh,  I  ought  to  have  that  hat." 

"Wait  till  I  get  a  rock,"  said  Worthing. 

She  loved  the  implied  sentiment  more  than  the  hat; 
but  they  passed  on.  Eventually  in  their  dawdling  prog- 
ress they  reached  a  window  which  she  could  not  pass.  It 
cast  a  net  out  on  the  sidewalk  and  entangled  her  feet.  A 
gown  hung  there  on  a  headless,  armless,  footless  dimimy. 
To  Worthing  it  was  simply  that  and  nothing  more. 
Mtuiel  could  see  herself  in  it,  alive  and  striding  or  gliding 
among  its  caressing  folds. 

"I'd  sell  my  soul  for  that,"  she  said.  "I  just  must 
have  that.  It's  Dutilh's  shop.  I  have  an  account  here, 
so  it  won't  cost  me  anything.  Come  in  and  let's  look 
at  it." 

But  this  was  more  than  Worthing  could  undergo.     He 

462 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

looked  at  his  watch  and  pretended  a  patient  waiting  for 
him.  Muriel  offered  to  postpone  her  visit  to  Dutilh,  but 
Worthing  could  hardly  assume  to  give  his  imaginary  client 
absent  treatment,  and  he  regretfully  stuck  to  his  excuse. 

"But  I  hadn't  half  finished  my  story,"  said  Muriel. 
"I'll  tell  you.  My  father  had  to  be  in  town  this  afternoon 
for  a  board  meeting.  He  invited  me  to  dinner  with 
him  and  a  dance  somewhere.  He's  just  falling  in  line, 
and  it's  awfully  good  for  him.  Every  now  and  then  we 
go  over  to  Long  Beach,  have  a  swim  and  dinner,  and  dance 
all  evening.  He's  lost  tons  of  weight.  Then  we  motor 
to  our  country  place.  You've  never  been  there,  have 
you?  You  must  come  out  for  the  next  week-end.  Will 
you?" 

Worthing  said  he  would.  He  was  almost  glad  that  he 
had  no  patients  to  neglect. 

"And  to-night?"  Muriel  pleaded,  as  if  she  were  asking 
a  charity.     "Will  you  dine  with  us  to-night?" 

He  graciously  consented. 

"At  eight  to-night,  then?  At  the  Ritz.  We'll  dine  on 
the  roof  if  you  like?" 

He  liked.  They  parted  with  a  mutual  gaze  as  elastic 
and  as  sweet  as  taffy  long  drawn  out. 

When  Muriel  walked  into  the  clothes  shop  Dutilh 
assailed  her  with  his  usual  My-Godding: 

"My  God!  I  thought  you'd  gone  abroad  again.  But 
evidently  not,  for  who  held  you  while  they  forced  you 
into  that  gown?  It  has  a  tight  skirt!  You  ought  to 
be  ashamed  to  be  seen  in  it." 

"I  got  it  in  Paris." 

"Yes,  I  saw  it  there,  and  I  wouldn't  let  them  lift  it  off 
the  hanger." 

Muriel  was  htiffed  a  little.     "I  didn't  buy  it  for  you." 

Dutilh  laughed  and  rubbed  his  nose  as  if  she  had  hit 
him  there. 

"That  gown  in  the  window,"  she  said. 

463 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Oh  yes,  the  purple  Premet!"  Dutilh  exclaimed.  "I 
saved  that  for  you  for  months,  but  you  didn't  come  in." 

"Oh,  then  it's  months  old." 

"Trapped!" 

"But  I  was  speaking  of  the  green  one." 

"Of  course!  The  Callot!  Fine!  That  came  in  yes- 
terday evening.  Just  out  of  the  customs,  just  unpacked. 
The  CaUot  girls  must  have  had  you  in  mind  when  they 
invented  it." 

"Why  didn't  you  save  that  for  me?" 

"I'd  given  you  up  as  hopeless." 

"May  I  see  it?" 

"Mrs.  Shenstone!"  he  shrieked.  "Get  that  Callot  out 
of  the  window.     Miss  Schuyler  wants  to  try  it  on." 

"No;  it's  too  hot  for  me  to  do  all  the  work.  Let  me 
see  it  on  a  model." 

Mrs.  Shenstone  hurried  away  with  the  frock  and  it 
returned  on  the  form  of  Maryla,  who  came  in  as  billowily 
as  a  footless  mermaid. 

Miiriel  greeted  her  with  a  flattering  affection  and  a 
shattering  query:  "Miss  Sokalska!  I'm  so  glad  to  see 
you.  And  you're  prettier  than  ever.  But  I  heard  you 
had  left  here,  had  come  into  a  lot  of  money.  Did  you? 
I  hope  you  didn't  lose  it!     Did  you?" 

Maryla  flushed.  Dutilh  tried  to  intervene.  He  turned 
to  Maryla.  "  I  told  Miss  Schuyler  about  the  money  when 
you  first  left."  He  turned  to  Muriel.  "But  you  know 
how  those  things  are.  The  amount  was  greatly  exagger- 
ated. So  she  came  back.  But  how  do  you  like  the 
gown?" 

"I  like  it  enormously  on  Miss  Sokalska,"  said  Muriel, 
^'The  green  goes  with  her  hair  wonderfully.  It's  Hke 
patina  on  an  old  bronze." 

"Then  it  would  suit  you  to  perfection,"  said  Dutilh, 
■"Your  coloring  is  much  the  same." 

"Oh,  Meesteh  Dutilh!"  Maryla  protested,  shocked  at 
Hs  venturing  to  equal  a  model  with  a  customer. 

464 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"The  honor  is  all  mine,"  said  Muriel. 

"Will  you  have  the  gown?"  said  Dutilh.  "Walk  away, 
my  dear,  and  let  her  see  the  back.     A  dream,  eh?' 

"It  belongs  on  Miss  Sokalska,"  said  Muriel.  "I'd 
never  dare  to  wear  it  now." 

This  was  terrible.  This  woiild  never  do.  A  model 
who  scared  off  purchasers! 

But  Mtiriel  said:  "Will  you  let  me  buy  it  for  you,  Miss 
Sokalska  ?  I  meant  to  bring  you  something  from  abroad, 
but  I— I  forgot." 

Maryla  was  in  a  panic.  She  had  had  too  much  of 
beautiful  gowns.  She  had  tried  to  live  down  to  the 
others,  but  she  said:  "Thenk  you,  please,  I  could  not 
live  up  to  such  a  dress.  I  am  a  woiking-girl,  not  a  fine 
lady." 

"All  the  same,  you  ought  to  have  it,"  Muriel  grumbled. 
She  disliked  being  thwarted  in  her  impulses.  It  was  her 
idea  of  charity  that  a  woman  needs  pretty  things  now 
and  then  more  than  bread  or  shelter.  She  reaUzed  the 
difficulty,  however,  of  forcing  the  gift  in  the  presence 
of  Dutilh.  If  she  had  Maryla  alone  she  might  succeed. 
She  might  get  her  a  better  situation  than  the  one  she  had. 
So  she  said,  "Well,  I'll  take  the  gown,  though  it's  too  good 
for  me — ^if  you'll  send  it  home  this  afternoon." 

"  It  will  be  there  in  an  hour,"  said  Dutilh,  waving  Mary- 
la away. 

Muriel  called  her  back.  ' '  I  want  to  talk  with  you  about 
everything,  Miss  Sokalska.  Won't  you  come  up  and  have 
a  cup  of  tea  with  me  when  you  leave  here?" 

Maryla  hesitated,  but  Dutilh  clinched  the  affair. 
"She  can  take  the  gown  to  your  house  herself,  and  we'll 
call  it  a  day's  work.     When  do  you  want  her?" 

"At  five?" 

"At  five." 

Maryla  arrived  at  the  Schuyler  front  door  with  the  big 
box  ;inder  her  arm.     Kane,  the  second  man,  ordered  her 

46  s 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

round  to  the  trade  entrance  in  the  area.  She  knew  enough 
by  now  to  remind  him  that  she  was  a  caller  on  Miss 
Schuyler, 

Muriel  came  down,  and  to  Kane's  befuddlement  treated 
her  with  distinction  and  ordered  in  tea.  Maryla  sat  in 
the  same  majestic  chair  drinking  tea  from  the  same  ser- 
vice with  the  same  ritual  as  at  first.  But  she  had  lived 
through  asons  of  experience  since  then.  She  was  not  the 
same  Maryla.  Muriel  had  dismissed  the  servants  with  a 
toss  of  the  head,  and  now  she  exclaimed: 

"Now  tell  me  all  about  yourself." 

Maryla  smiled  wretchedly.  That  was  a  large  order, 
an  impossible  order,  too,  even  if  one  had  the  time  and  the 
memory  and  the  enditrance.  Muriel  had  to  fill  the  silence 
herself: 

* '  You  are  looking  so  much  better !  Have  you  been  well  ? 
Do  you  hke  the  work?" 

Maryla  had  come  to  the  Schuyler  home  in  a  mood  em- 
bittered with  realization  of  the  hateful  fact  that  Mtuiel 
was,  in  a  sense,  to  blame  for  all  that  had  befallen  her. 
She  wanted  to  pour  out,  with  the  wrath  of  an  ancient 
prophet,  her  horror  of  the  ways  of  these  rich  Moabites 
in  whose  tribe  a  Perry  Merithew  could  prosper.  She  had 
heard  that  Muriel  knew  the  sleek  monster,  was  friends 
with  him.  She  wanted  to  accuse  Muriel  of  being  as  bad 
as  herself,  as  bad  as  Merithew. 

But  somehow  hospitaHty  has  always  exerted  a  mystic 
power  of  disarmament.  Maryla  had  broken  Muriel's  tea- 
biscuits  and  tasted  her  sugar.  And  her  response  to 
Muriel's  eager  concern  was  not  wrath,  but  love.  She  had 
longed  for  one  thing  more  than  revenge,  and  that  was  ex- 
pression. She  had  famished  for  one  listener.  And  now 
she  had  found  one,  and  she  felt  that  there  would  be  deep 
wells  of  sympathy  to  her  need. 

She  told  her  story  in  her  own  way,  rather  giving  her- 
self the  worst  of  it,  seeing  her  innocent  motives  through 
the  ugly  murk  of  their  consequences.    And  she  called 

466 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Perry  Merithew  "Meesteh  Brown,"  as  she  had  called  him 
to  the  janitor  and  her  maid. 

Muriel  listened  with  breathlessness.  She  knew  that 
these  things  were  frequent.  She  had  heard  and  read  of 
them  in  novels  and  stories  and  sermons  and  newspapers, 
in  villages,  covmtrysides,  cities,  American  and  foreign. 
But  she  had  never  heard  a  history  of  the  sort  from  the 
lips  of  experience. 

It  was  another  day  of  debut  to  Muriel  like  that  one 
when  she  first  invaded  the  realm  of  the  very  poor.  Now 
she  knew  the  tragic  meaning  of  the  contemptuous  plati- 
tude, "Why  girls  go  wrong." 

Strangely,  she  did  not  feel  disdain  or  repugnance.  She 
did  not  feel  soiled  by  the  testimony.  The  dirt  of  life  is 
fertile,  and  it  washes  off,  and  whoso  is  afraid  to  dig  in  it 
is  not  likely  to  understand  the  soil  he  springs  from  or  the 
field  where  he  grows. 

Miuiel  ached  with  the  burden  of  the  long  months 
Maryla  had  trudged;  she  flamed  with  her  wrath  at  the 
man,  this  imiversal  Mr.  Brown  who  tarried  awhile,  and 
rode  away.  She  was  not  judicial  enough  to  absolve  Mr. 
Brown  from  treachery  or  conspiracy  or  to  see  that  he  was 
almost  as  much  the  helpless  victim  of  his  evil  impulses 
as  the  woman  was.  She  felt  a  truth  in  the  old  formula 
that  makes  the  man  the  deep-dyed  villain,  the  spreader 
of  snares  for  innocent  feet. 

When  Maryla  told  how  she  had  longed  to  stab  her 
betrayer  with  the  hat-pin  he  gave  her,  and  drew  it  from  her 
hat,  Muriel  took  it  from  her  and  studied  it.  Its  claw- 
gripped  amethyst  and  its  keen  steel  length  were  as  dread- 
ful as  if  it  had  done  the  deed  it  was  meant  for. 

She  put  it  down  on  the  tea-table;  it  was  still  danger- 
ous;  it  was  romantic  with  menace. 

As  Maryla  went  on  with  her  chronicle,  and  told  how  she 
had  gone  back  to  her  home,  but  had  been  unable  to  breathe 
in  its  fetid  atmosphere,  she  found  in  Muriel's  eyes 
and  in  her  little  gasps  of  comment  all  imaginable  sym- 

467 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

pathy,  until  she  told  how  she  had  given  her  baby  to  the 
■dty. 

Then  Muriel,  who  had  never  borne  a  child,  felt  all  the 
primal  antipathy  for  such  a  deed  and  could  not  mask 
her  aversion. 

Maryla  cowered  before  the  imwitting  condemnation. 
She  did  not  defend  herself;  but  in  a  dull  fury  heaped  re- 
proaches on  her  own  wickedness. 

Her  self-revilement  forced  Muriel  to  be  her  advocate. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  blaming  you  for  what  you  did.  You  are 
not  bad.  It  was  not  bad  of  you  to  do  what  you  did. 
It  was  love  that  made  you,  and  it  was  something  to  be 
proud  of  because  you  coiild  love  so  well  and  endure  so 
much  so  patiently." 

It  takes  the  innocent  yoimg  to  say  such  things.  Muriel 
caught  up  Maryla's  hand  and  tried  to  include  herself  in 
the  sisterhood  of  motherdom. 

Nothing  could  have  convinced  Maryla  of  Muriel's  in- 
nocence like  her  pretense  at  knowledge  and  her  reckless 
s>Tnpathy.  She  decided  that  Muriel  could  not  be  of 
Perry  Merithew's  sort,  and  she  was  glad  that  she  had 
kept  the  man's  name  secret. 

Meanwhile  Muriel  was  squandering  more  of  her  en- 
thusiasm for  ever5rthing  human.  "But  the  past  is  over 
and  done.  It's  the  futiue  that  counts.  And  you  mustn't 
— you  simply  mustn't — cleave  yoiu-  baby  to  an  institution. 
You'd  never  forgive  yourself.  You'd  never  know  where 
it  was.  Even  if  it  were  dead  you  wouldn't  know,  but  its 
ghost  would  seem  to  haunt  you.  And  if  it  were  aUve  you 
would  think  that  you  heard  it  calling  to  you  for  help. 
You  can't  deny  your  child  the  most  precious  thing  in  life — 
a  mother  to  go  to." 

These  were  not  new  ideas  to  Maryla.  She  had  dwelt 
•with  them  ever  since  she  consigned  her  child  to  oblivion. 
Muriel  opened  the  old  woimds  and  broke  the  sluices  of 
tears  anew.     Maryla  as  she  wept  could  only  plead: 

"But  how  should  I  support  my  baby?  Where  can 
468 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

I  woik  and  keep  my  baby?  Can  I  pay  for  somebody 
would  take  care  the  baby  when  I  am  away  woiking  by 
dressmakers  or  anywhere?" 

Muriel  was  ready  for  this.  "The  father  must  pay  for 
you  and  the  baby,  too — ^this  Mr.  Brown." 

"No,  no,  he  shall  not  have." 

"  It's  his  duty  if  not  his  right.  If  you  won't  speak  to 
him,  I  will.     And  I'll  make  him  marry  you." 

"He  married  somebody  else  foist." 

Muriel  was  staggered  by  the  ugliness  of  this  fact.  "  The 
dog!  The  beast!  WeU,  then,  you  and  I  will  take  care 
of  the  baby  without  him.  He  has  no  right  to  it.  The 
first  thing  is  for  you  to  make  sure  that  the  baby  hasn't 
been  given  away  to  anybody  else.  You  go  claim  the 
baby  and — " 

Miiriel's  father  came  into  the  room.  He  had  had  the 
stormy  day  of  an  old-school  capitalist  fighting  the  im- 
pertinent claims  of  the  new-school  publicists,  who  were 
trying  to  make  him  personally  and  criminally  responsible 
for  a  train  wreck  on  one  of  his  railroads. 

He  was  in  a  rage  and  hungry  for  his  dinner.  He  was 
curt  to  Maryla  when  Muriel  reminded  him  that  he  had 
met  her.  He  was  curt  to  Muriel.  Even  she  could  not 
overawe  him  when  he  was  hungry.  She  promised  to  be 
dressed  in  a  jiffy,  and  she  reluctantly  bundled  Maryla 
out  of  the  house,  saying: 

"Come  see  me,  soon.  And  go  get  your  baby,  and 
I'll  be  responsible  for  it.  And  I'll  see  your  father  and 
mother  again,  and  make  everything  as  right  as  I  can." 

Muriel  was  a  member  of  the  new  school,  and  believed 
in  everybody's  being  responsible  for  everybody  else. 
Maryla  tried  to  stammer  her  thanks,  but  Muriel  took 
her  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her  and  did  what  she  did  not 
do  for  richer  callers — ^w^ent  to  the  door  with  her.  Then 
she  ran  up  the  stairs  to  dress  for  the  dinner  and  the  dance. 
She  had  certainly  earned  them  both. 

Marv'la,  out  on  the  sidewalk,  nearly  lost  her  hat  in  a 
469 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

gust  of  evening  breeze.  She  remembered  that  she  had 
left  her  hat-pin  on  the  tea-table.  She  was  afraid  to  go 
back  for  it.  She  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  it.  She  turned 
toward  the  Foundling  Hospital  with  a  more  peaceful 
soul. 

The  servants,  finding  the  hat-pin  when  they  took  away 
the  tea-service,  supposed  it  to  be  Muriel's,  and  sent  it 
up  to  her  room,  where  the  housemaid  put  it  in  her  pin- 
cushion without  remark. 

Muriel  was  too  busy  to  be  spoken  to.  Her  own  maid 
was  in  the  country,  and  everything  was  at  sixes  and  sevens. 
She  did  not  wear  a  hat  when  she  met  her  father  in  the 
haU.  She  was  trying  not  to  breathe  fast  from  her  whirl- 
\\'ind  change  of  costumes,  and  trying  to  make  him  think 
that  he  had  kept  her  waiting. 

They  dined  at  the  hotel  because  their  own  kitchen  crew 
was  in  the  country.  All  the  way  down  in  the  car  Jacob 
was  spluttering  about  his  business  troubles. 

"You'll  forget  'em  when  they  strike  up  the  lame  duck," 
said  Miuiel.  "And  you  mustn't  spoil  your  dinner  with 
talking  shop,  for  your  nice  young  doctor  is  to  dine  with 
us." 

"My  nice  young  doctor?"  said  Jacob..  "Who's  my 
young  doctor?" 

"Clinton  Worthing,"  Muriel  simpered,  with  the  ultra 
demurity  of  an  old  actress. 

"My  nice  young  doctor!"  sniffed  Jacob.  "You  Httle 
scoundrel!  Well,  I'm  glad  Winnie  Nicolls  is  to  be  with 
us  to-night  to  act  as  an  antidote  to  our  nice  young  doctor." 

"Winnie  Nicolls?"  Muriel  gasped. 

"Yes;  he's  come  on  the  Board  now,  and  I  asked  him 
to  join  us.  He's  got  an  aunt  or  something  in  tow  for  me 
to  dance  with.  You  can  tell  your  mother  about  her 
mysteriously,  and  maybe  we  can  make  her  so  jealous  that 
she'll  take  up  dancing,  too.  She  needs  it.  We'll  get 
yoiir — ^my  nice  yoimg  doctor  to  prescribe  it." 


A  sudden  vicious  inspiration  led  Pet 


J4I^    HOBTGDff^y    ■:RAC3^ 


flick  the  ashes  into  Perry's  eye. 


CHAPTER  LVII 

IT  was  the  season  when  over  New  York  there  seems  to 
stand  a  demon  of  heat  beating  the  town  with  a  flail. 
During  the  day  the  only  stir  in  the  air  comes  from  the 
softened  pavements  where  he  pounds  up  the  dust.  Usual- 
ly, though  not  always,  he  rests  at  siindown  and  breezes 
come  in  like  brooks  of  salvation. 

This  was  such  a  night.  On  the  roofs  of  the  multi- 
tudinous towers  that  climb  and  climb,  the  lucky  folk  were 
gathered,  eating  or  dancing,  listening  to  music  or  watch- 
ing the  dancers.  Hordes  of  them  were  visitors,  but  there 
were  armies  of  husbands  whose  wives  were  in  more  season- 
able places.  And  there  were  a  few  of  the  wealthy  who 
had  been  kept  in  town  or  called  back  on  some  of  the  in- 
terests that  made  up  their  wealth. 

Pet  Bettany  and  her  mother  were  spending  the  sttmmer 
in  town.  They  had  no  husband  and  father  to  leave  at  a 
desk,  nobody  to  send  them  funds.  The  hard  times  had 
almost  ended  their  revenue.  They  resolved  to  rent  their 
summer  home  and  hide  in  their  town  house.  They  could 
pretend  that  they  had  been  to  Europe — or  anywhere 
where  their  friends  had  not  been. 

Even  summer  homes  were  not  easy  to  rent  in  the  black 
year  of  1914.  The  sum  the  Bettanys  finally  had  to  ac- 
cept barely  kept  them  in  food  and  forbade  excursions. 

If  good  people  imdergoing  hardships  deserve  sympathy, 
there  ought  to  be  even  more  for  bad  people  in  distress, 
since  they  have  not  even  patience  or  the  strong  support 
of  deserving  better.  The  Bettany  women  took  their 
hiuniliations    without    humiHty.     When    Pet    had    seen 

475 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Merithew  at  the  polo  game  she  had  coerced  him  into  a 
luncheon  rendezvous.  Perry  kept  the  engagement  because 
he  feared  that  Pet  was  planning  something  new  against 
Muriel.  Pet  astounded  him  by  turning  up  in  a  pathetic 
hiunor.  She  hiu-t  his  appetite  with  the  sorrowful  story 
of  her  privations,  and  she  moved  him  almost  to  tears  by  the 
ravenous  way  she  ate  the  unsubstantial  decorative  things 
she  ordered. 

"I'm  so  sick  of  bread  and  milk  and  round  steaks  and 
tinned  things  from  impudent  tradespeople,  slung  at  us 
by  anarchist  servants  who  only  stay  with  us,  damn  'em, 
because  they  can't  get  jobs  anywhere  else.  The  only 
solution  of  the  servant  problem  is  hard  times,  and  then 
it's  the  master  problem.  I  want  to  eat  a  ton  of  hors- 
d'cBuvres  and  a  barrel  of  caviar  and  some  truffles  and 
Nesselrode  pudding,  and  all  the  things  I  don't  get  at 
home." 

Perry  felt  like  a  philanthropist  at  a  newsboys'  banquet. 
He  resolved  that  he  would  lend  her  some  money,  after  all. 
The  up-town  sliims  appealed  to  his  generosity.  He  said, 
amiably,  "Dancing  much,  Pet?" 

"Dancing?"  said  Pet,  with  her  mouth  full,  in  her  grand 
old  plebeian  Russian  -  empress  way.  "Who's  going  to 
take  me  to  a  dance?  I've  been  tempted  to  go  out  and 
hire  one  of  these  one-stepping  haberdashers  to  dance 
with  me;   but  I  haven't  had  the  nerve — or  the  price." 

"What  would  you  say  if  I  asked  you  to  take  dinner 
to-night  with  me  and  dance  the  evening  out?" 

"I'd  call  for  some  aromatic  ammonia  before  I  fainted." 

"Would  your  mother  have  to  come  along?"  said  Perry, 
anxiously.     "Of  course  I  Icve  Mrs.  T.  J.  B.,  but—" 

"Say  no  more.  Perry.  Let  mother  darling  row  her 
own  hoe,  or  whatever  they  say." 

When  Perry  called  for  Pet  that  evening  he  was  sur- 
prised to  see  how  fine  she  looked.  She  would  have 
dubbed  her  evening  gown  old-fashioned,   but  she  had 

476 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

bought  with  such  far-sighted  providence  that  it  was  still 
a  Uttle  ahead  of  the  season. 

Perry  lavished  compliments  on  her,  and  it  is  not  cer- 
tain that  in  the  dusk  of  the  cab  he  did  not  live  up  to  his 
reputation  better  than  with  Red  Ida. 

Pet  was  so  gorgeous  that  he  decided  to  take  her  to  the 
Ritz-Carlton  for  dinner.  They  could  dance  in  a  rowdier 
place  if  the  spirit  moved  them,  or  in  any  of  the  expensive 
hotels,  for  the  dance  industry  had  forced  them  all  into  line. 
■  Perry  and  Pet  went  up  to  the  dining-room  on  the  roof, 
and  rejoiced  in  its  cool  richnesses.  Under  the  striped  canopy 
great  baskets  of  flowers  hung  in  profusion.  And  the  night 
air  streamed  in  across  a  parapet  of  plants  in  bloom.  It 
played  about  with  the  hilarity  of  a  jester  in  a  throne-room. 
It  bent  the  flowers  double  and  tousled  the  hair  of  the  men. 
It  twitched  the  plumes  in  the  head-dresses  of  the  wom- 
en, and  it  whisked  impishly  at  their  Hght  skirts  as  they 
entered. 

And  at  one  empty  table  it  fluttered  the  table-cloth  so 
joyously  that  at  last  a  thin  goblet  rolled  to  the  floor  and 
broke  with  a  little  tinkle. 

Pet's  spirits  rose  higher  and  higher,  and  Perry  ordered 
with  less  than  his  usual  delicacy,  for  Pet  was  hungry. 
Also  thirsty.  She  flung  his  cocktail  as  well  as  her  own 
between  her  riant  lips.    And  she  said: 

"Make  it~ champagne,  old  thing,  won't  you?  That's 
the  love-child!    And  give  me  a  cigarette." 

Perry  made  it  champagne.  A  best  one.  It  came  so  dry 
that  Pet  pretended  to  blow  the  dust  off  it.  Perry,  though 
he  drank  hardly  a  drop,  began  to  feel  the  conviviality  of 
the  occasion,  and  people  at  other  tables  were  glancing 
with  amusement  or  displeasiire  at  him  and  at  Pet,  whose 
strong  voice  was  not  muffled  with  gaiety. 

And  then  Winnie  Nicolls  had  to  come  in,  with  some 
elderly  woman  in  convoy.  Pet  waved  to  him  with  an 
eagerness  that  miffed  Perry.  She  beckoned  him  to  come 
over  from  the  large  table  where  he  had  been  seated. 

477 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

But  he  bowed  low  and  indicated  his  companion  as  an 
excuse  for  staying  put. 

Pet  grew  sullen.  "Who's  the  old  hen  he's  with,  and 
why  is  he  afraid  to  let  her  see  him  with  me?  Is  it  be- 
cause I'm  smoking?" 

"I  don't  know — three  times,"  said  Perry. 

"Am  I  flushed?    Am  I  talking  too  loud?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  what  do  I  care?"  she  said,  louder  still.  Then 
she  saw  that  his  face  had  brightened  suddenly.  She  faced 
about.  Muriel  Schuyler  was  coming  in  with  her  father 
and  some  young  man. 

Perry  was  disgusted  at  being  caught  out  with  Pet  on 
one  of  her  bad  days,  but  he  decided  to  put  on  a  bold  front. 
He  started  to  rise  and  go  to  Muriel.  But  Pet  put  her 
hand  on  his  arm  and  set  him  down  ridiculously. 

It  was  Winnie  NicoUs  that  rose  and  motioned  to  Muriel, 
and  she  turned  in  his  direction. 

Pet  saw  this,  too,  and  it  inflamed  her  further.  Perry 
tried  to  lift  her  hand  from  his  arm,  and  pleaded: 

"Let  me  go,  please.  I  must  speak  to  Miss  Schuyler 
just  a  moment." 

She  would  not  release  him.  She  mumbled:  "Muriel 
Schuyler  can't  have  all  the  men.  If  Winnie  can't  leave 
his  hen,  you  can't  leave  me." 

"I'll  only  be  a  moment,  please,"  Perry  urged. 

But  Pet  had  already  passed  the  danger-point.  Her 
cigarette  caught  her  notice;  the  ashes  were  about  to  top- 
ple. A  sudden  vicious  inspiration  led  her  to  flick  them 
into  Perry's  eye. 

Staring  at  Muriel,  he  did  not  see  them  coming.  They 
filled  his  eyes  with  pain  and  tears,  and  his  heart  with  rage. 

"Oh,  so  sorry!"  Pet  laughed.  "Go  on  to  your  Muriel 
now.     I  don't  mind." 

He  could  not  go.  He  spent  some  awkward  moments 
bathing  his  eye  with  his  handkerchief  wetted  in  his  glass 
of  water.    His  temper  was  gone  beyond  control.     He 

478 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

was  kept  winking,  and  he  dared  not  look  at  Muriel.  He 
lectured  Pet  in  a  low  tone,  and  she  answered  him  with 
such  blatance  that  the  waiters  were  in  distress. 

Perry  saw  through  his  inflamed  eyes  that  Muriel  was 
wondering,  and  her  father  annoyed.  Winnie  NicoUs  was 
disgusted,  and  his  aunt  from  out  of  town  half  amazed 
and  half  delighted  at  this  confirmation  of  her  opinion  of 
New  York  manners  and  morals. 

As  soon  as  the  miserable  dinner  could  be  served  and 
disposed  of.  Perry  got  Pet  away  on  the  pretext  of  an  im- 
patience to  dance.  When  he  had  helped  her  into  a  taxi- 
cab,  he  whispered  her  address  to  the  driver. 

When  Pet  realized  that  he  had  brought  her  home  she 
made  a  magnificent  scene,  and  Perry  was  not  sure  that  she 
would  not  strike  him  in  the  face. 

To  the  deHght  of  the  chauffeur,  she  stood  at  her  front 
door  and  threatened  Perry  Merithew  with  vengeance  dire 
and  memorable.  Perry  went  back  to  the  Ritz-Carlton 
to  make  his  apologies,  but  Mtiriel  and  her  company  had 
gone  somewhere  else  to  dance.  He  went  to  half  the  roofs 
in  town  before  he  reached  the  one  where  they  had  been. 
And  by  that  time  they  had  been  and  gone. 

Worthing  had  been  hardly  more  comfortable  through 
the  dinner  than  Merithew.  He  had  not  been  yoked  to  a 
woman  whose  good  breeding  had  shown  poor  results; 
but  he  had  been  encircled  with  money. 

Jacob  Schuyler  was  rich.  Winnie  Nicolls  was  richer, 
and  his  aimt,  Mrs.  Adams  of  Boston,  was  one  of  the  pluto- 
crats of  New  England.  Winnie  remembered  Worthing, 
and  told  again  the  story  of  the  vain  pursuit  they  had  en- 
gaged in  when  Muriel  was  kidnapped.  But  Winnie  did 
not  disguise  his  jealousy  of  him. 

After  the  dinner  they  adjourned  to  the  Biltmore  to 
dance.  Jacob  and  Mrs.  Adams  made  sorry  progress. 
Both  had  been  learning  new  steps,  but  they  had  not 
learned  the  same  ones,  and  the  result  was  more  debate 

479 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

than  dance.  When  Jacob  sidled,  Abigail  dipped;  and 
when  Abigail  pirouetted,  Jacob  castle-walked. 

Muriel  gave  Worthing  the  first  dance,  and  he  rejoiced 
till  he  wondered  if  she  had  not  done  it  to  tantalize  Nicolls. 
Furthermore,  Jacob  stopped  them  in  mid-ecstasy  and  cut 
in,  offering  to  trade  partners.  He  wrested  his  daughter 
from  Worthing's  arms  and  bounded  away  like  a  galloping 
buffalo,  for  Muriel  knew  his  rh}^hm.  Worthing  had  noth- 
ing to  do  but  offer  Abigail  the  hollow  of  his  arms,  and  to 
his  horror  she  found  him  so  congenial  a  dancer  that  she 
required  an  encore.     Then  it  was  Nicolls  that  laughed. 

Jacob  was  Hke  a  boy.  He  had  got  back  the  dancing 
fever,  and  besides  the  joy  of  the  speed  and  the  music  and 
the  Hit  there  was  the  added  promise  of  well-won  sleep  and 
the  welcome  testimony  of  the  bath-room  scales  every  few 
mornings  that  he  had  made  one  pound  of  flesh  grow 
where  two  had  grown  before. 

And  so,  being  a  monopoHst  by  nature,  he  was  perfectly 
willing  to  keep  Muriel  from  the  two  young  men,  and  leave 
them  to  alternate  as  wallflower  or  as  first  aid  to  Abigail. 

When  Jacob  grew  tired  it  was  always  time  to  go  home. 
He  tired  early,  since  he  rose  early,  and  he  was  soon  telling 
Muriel  to  bid  her  guests  good  night. 

Winnie  Nicolls  tried  to  make  an  engagement  with 
Muriel  for  the  next  day,  but  she  said  that  she  would  be 
in  the  country.  He  suggested  the  following  afternoon, 
but  she  said  that  her  father  would  be  motoring  over  to 
Long  Beach  for  a  swim  and  more  dancing.  Winnie  sug- 
gested the  still  following  day,  but  Muriel  had  an  engage- 
ment in  town  at  a  most  important  charity  meeting  with 
a  committee  of  which  Mrs.  Perry  Merithew  was  chair- 
man.    Winnie  gave  up  in  despair. 

Worthing  made  a  note  of  that  Long  Beach  hint,  and 
resolved  to  happen  to  be  there.  The  ocean  still  belonged 
to  the  public,  and  a  rich  man  in  a  bathing-suit  was  no 
better  than  a  poor  man  unless  he  were  the  better  swimmer. 
And  Worthing  rather  prided  himself  on  his  natation. 


CHAPTER  LVIII 

PEOPLE  who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  bathing-suits 
alter  all  civilization.  Everything  suffers  a  sea 
change.  They  doff  the  habits  that  have  been  drilled  into 
them  from  infancy,  the  very  principles  of  morality.  They 
are  so  used  to  their  clothes  that  when  they  take  them  off 
they  are  really  putting'  on  a  domino.  Their  own  skins 
and  limbs  are  a  masquerade. 

They  check  at  the  office  their  valuables,  write  their 
names  on  them,  and  reclaim  them  later,  saying: 

"Give  me  back  my  modesty,  my  dignity,  my  pride.  I 
left  with  you  a  lively  sense  of  the  importance  of  conceal- 
ing my  ankles  and  knees,  and  a  complete  set  of  demure 
ideals  and  discreet  behaviors." 

Imagine  the  horror  of  a  lady  who  found  that  she  had 
lost  her  check  or  by  mistake  held  that  of  some  Hght  per- 
son, or  learned  that  her  valuables  had  been  mislaid  or 
given  away  to  somebody  else.  Imagine  Mrs.  Grundy 
coming  back  wet  and  animal,  and  finding  that  she  would 
have  to  return  to  town  as  she  had  just  come  up  the  beach ! 
Ponder  the  astounding  fact  that  if  she  were  to  saunter 
along  the  board-walk  in  the  garb  she  wore  on  the  sand  a 
foot  away,  she  would  ruin  her  reputation  for  Hfe.  In 
most  of  the  seaside  colonies  she  would  be  arrested  by  the 
blushing  police  if  she  went  to  her  cottage,  a  hundred 
yards  distant,  without  an  enveloping  mantle  about  her. 

But  on  the  strip  of  free  country  along  the  water's  edge 
she  will  not  be  criticized,  though  she  stroll  or  sprawl  or 
run  or  stand  in  the  suds  and  cling  to  a  rope  and  bounce 
up  and  down  in  a  jostle  of  total  strangers.     She  may  shriek 

481 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

and  cavort  and  splash,  and  no  one  will  protest.  That  is 
what  she  is  there  for.  She  may  bark  and  wallow  and 
wiggle  like  a  glistening  seal,  and  nobody  will  say  her  nay. 
Astounding  and  bewildering  truth  that  one  may  not  do 
in  one  crowded  place  what  one  may  do  in  another!  O 
times!    O  places!    O  morals! 

The  partially  and  insecurely  costumed  faim  next  to  Mrs. 
Grundy  may  be  her  parson.  Only  yesterday  he  may  have 
(and  probably  had)  delivered  a  scorching  jeremiad  against 
the  indecencies  of  the  modem  fashions,  the  sensualities 
of  the  ball-room,  or  the  Babylonian  horrors  of  musical 
comedy  where  the  most  brazen  show-girl  or  acrobat  is 
hardly  more  exposed  than  wet  Mrs.  Grundy  or  himself. 

But  now  his  reverence  is  dressed  verj'-  nearly  as  God 
dressed  him  and  he  is  lauding  God,  who  made  the  sea,  for 
making  it. 

The  parson  s  wife  may  be  out  yonder  on  the  float  with 
a  bevy  of  dancing  mergirls  and  kicking  her  manifest  legs 
in  pagan  childishness.  On  the  beach  the  little  daughter 
of  the  minister  may  be  screaming  in  the  wash  and  trussed 
up  as  high  as  anatomy  allows — a  little  human  clothes- 
pin. The  minister's  elder  daughter  may  be  lolling  in  knee- 
skirts  on  the  sand  and  combing  her  hair  while  she  flirts 
with  a  young  fellow  two-thirds  of  whose  person  is  covered 
only  by  a  coat  of  siuibum. 

It  is  hard  for  us  to  understand  the  Roman  Saturnalia 
of  three  days,  yet  we  have  three  months  of  it.  Inconsist- 
ency has  never  had  anything  to  do  with  virtue,  and  never 
will  have;  and  the  saint  may  perform  to-day  what  the 
courtesan  dared  not  do  yesterday  and  will  not  dare  to- 
morrow. For  whatever  everybody  does  is  right  so  long 
as  everybody  does  it. 

These  things  ought  to  make  us  less  ruthless  in  our 
condemnations,  but  they  don't  and  won't.  The  scandal- 
ous are  as  easily  scandalized  as  the  prudes. 

Mrs.  Grtmdy,  whose  skirt  comes  an  inch  below  her  knees 
(when  she  stands  still),  is  disgusted  at  the  sight  of  Miss 

482 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Phryne,  whose  skirt  ends  an  inch  above  the  fatal  patella. 
Rev.  Dr.  Dogma,  whose  sleeves  fall  an  inch  below  his 
shoulders,  is  revolted  at  the  young  men  who  have  no 
sleeves  at  all. 

And  this  hilariously  depraved  multitude,  a  glimpse  of 
whose  unashamed  persons  would  have  set  Cotton  Mather 
or  even  Roger  Williams  to  calling  on  Heaven  for  a  shower 
of  brimstone,  was  itself  aghast  at  the  newest  depravity 
because  it  was  new. 

In  the  summer  of  19 14  the  dancing  mania  took  an  am- 
phibious form.  A  number  of  half-clad  bathers,  not  con- 
tent with  walking  or  running  or  sitting  or  l3ang  supine 
or  prone  along  the  beach,  actually  took  to  dancing 
together.  This  was  the  post-ultimate  adventure.  This 
was,  as  the  Irish  say,  "beyond  the  beyonds." 

But  the  strongest  language  that  could  have  been  de- 
vised was  already  exhausted  in  denouncing  the  tango,  and 
before  that  the  tiu-key  trot,  the  waltz,  the  polka,  the 
minuet,  the  very  idea  of  dancing. 

Yet  the  dances  had  waxed  and  waned  in  popularity 
with  no  regard  whatsoever  to  the  names  they  were  called; 
they  waxed  and  waned  like  other  public  whims,  solely 
according  to  the  great  social  law  of  novelty  and  fatigue. 
And  the  only  moral  seems  to  be  that  one  should  save  a 
superlative  or  two  for  a  rainy  day. 

Spendthrift  moralists,  who  had  worn  out  all  the  in- 
decent notms  and  adjectives  in  rebuking  people  who 
danced  indoors  on  floors,  had  nothing  left  but  the  same 
objurgations  for  people  who  danced  outdoors  on  beaches. 
It  might  be  hard  to  explain  why  it  was  less  reprehensible 
for  two  people  to  gyrate  mutually  in  flimsy  evening  clothes 
in  stuffy  rooms  than  to  perform  the  same  motions  in  the 
broad  daylight  before  thousands  in  only  slightly  less 
costume.  But  there  it  was.  And  many  of  the  tango 
maniacs  were  as  loud  as  the  preachers  in  reviling  the 
outburst. 

Perhaps  the  next  summer  would  see  it  forbidden  by 
483 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

law,  or  perhaps  the  very  matrons  would  be  at  it  in  the 
moonlight.  But  in  19 14  few  but  the  extreme  progressives 
were  so  superior  or  inferior  to  public  opinion  as  to  indulge 
in  beach  dancing. 

Even  Perry  Merithew  gasped  at  the  first  sight  of  the 
spectacle.  He  had  motored  over  to  Long  Beach,  accord- 
ing to  a  popular  program,  for  a  swim,  followed  by  a 
dancing-tea,  followed  by  a  dancing-dinner,  an  evening  of 
dancing  at  the  Trouville,  and  a  motor-ride  back  to  town 
or  to  some  Long  Island  home. 

The  day  was  stinging  hot,  and  the  motor-mobbed  roads 
were  foggy  with  dust.  The  sight  of  the  vast  placid  sea 
was  a  boon. 

Perry  left  his  mufti  in  the  bath-house,  emerged  in  the 
legal  minimum  of  bathing-suit,  and  ran  into  the  small 
surf,  dived  through  the  first  waves  and  played  dolphin 
awhile,  then  went  ashore,  and  promenaded  his  powerful 
frame,  letting  the  sim  dry  him  so  that  the  sea  might  wet 
him  again.  A  band  in  a  pavilion  was  booming  dance 
tunes  to  whose  key  and  meter  the  waves  paid  no  heed. 

Perry  walked  into  a  little  galaxy  of  couples  dancing  on 
the  well-sanded  floor  of  the  beach.  They  were  not  very 
nice  people,  of  course.  But  then  the  first  people  who  take 
up  fashions,  sciences,  and  religions  never  are. 

Perry  enjoyed  the  rare  luxury  of  being  shocked.  He 
denounced  the  exhibition  to  the  nearest  bystander. 
Then,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  wall  of  spectators,  he 
saw  Aphra  Shaler.  She  had  come  to  Long  Beach  under 
other  auspices — evidently  those  of  a  man  so  helpless  with 
fat  that  he  resembled  a  Japanese  day  balloon,  one  of 
those  strange  bloats  that  have  hands  and  legs  affixed. 
His  very  appearance  in  a  batliing-suit  was  an  affront. 

Aphra  was  very  becomingly  costumed  in  such  garb  as 
an  overgrown  doll  might  have  worn  in  swimming. 

Perry  did  not  recognize  her  at  first  because  she  had 
redecorated  her  hair.  The  heap  of  copper  wire  was  a  pile 
of  ashen  threads.     She  was  something  new  again  and  had 

484 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

turned  so  pretty  that  he  forgave  her  the  moneys  she  had 
wheedled  out  of  him  with  her  ingenious,  ingenuous  eyes 
so  prompt  to  tears. 

Aphra  found  him  so  pretty  that  she  also  forgave  him 
and  forgot;  forgave  Perry  the  moneys  he  had  lately  re- 
fused her,  and  forgot  her  escort  entirely.  She  caracoled 
to  Perry's  side,  squeezed  his  arm,  and  murmured: 

"Hello,  Per!"  Aphra  was  one  of  those  who  must  have 
always  a  nickname  for  the  nickname. 

"Hello!"  said  Perry. 

"Dance?"  said  she. 

"No,  thanks,"  said  he. 

"Please." 

"No,  thanks!" 

"Where's  the  harm?" 

"Where's  the  fun?" 

"Try  it  just  once — for  old  sake's  sake." 

He  shook  his  head.     She  persisted. 

"I  dare  you  to." 

Perry  accepted  the  challenge.  Aphra  stepped  into  his 
arms,  and  they  stepped  out.  The  band  was  playing  a 
hesitation  waltz.  Aphra  managed  to  keep  from  treading 
on  Perry's  bare  feet,  and  there  was  a  peculiar  exhilaration 
in  the  open  air,  the  quaint  daredeviltry  of  the  dance. 

"What's  happened  to  your  hair?"  he  said. 

"It  needed  a  new  coat  of  paint,  so  I  tried  this  shade 
for  a  change.     Like  it?" 

"Immensely." 

Aphra  was  overjoyed.  She  gave  no  further  thought  to 
her  original  sponsor. 

The  next  music  was  a  maxixe.  They  danced  that  to- 
gether. Then  they  ran  into  the  ocean  for  a  swim;  then 
came  out  and  danced  again.  There  was  something 
primeval  about  it — something  Polynesian. 

Clinton  Worthing  had  come  early  to  the  beach  in  the 
•hope  of  surprising  Muriel.     He  had  swum  and  basked  and 

48s 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

swum  again,  but  she  had  not  come.  He  joined  the  mob  of 
spectators  around  the  dancing  few.  The  dancing  shocked 
him — him  whom  such  appaUing  things  did  not  shock. 

He  watched  the  infatuated  dervishes  awhile,  then 
turned  away-  He  ahnost  fell  over  an  umbrella  and  sent 
it  skirling  aside. 

When  he  hastened  to  recover  it  he  foimd  before  him 
and  beneath  him  the  great  Mrs.  Schuyler  squat  on  the 
sand  like  a  sultana.  She  was  not  in  bathing  tog?,  and 
Worthing  felt  as  if  he  had  wandered  out  of  his  bath- 
room into  a  drawing-room. 

But  Susan  Schuyler  was  not  shocked.  She  smiled  and 
said,  "Sit  down,  won't  you?" 

He  dropped  like  an  invited  Turk. 

Susan  explained:  "I'm  too  lazy  to  go  in  to-day.  My 
husband  and  my  daughter  are  getting  ready  now.  Do 
you  enjoy  the  surf,  Dr.  Worthing?" 

Worthing  said  that  he  did. 

"I  used  to,"  said  Susan.  "I  used  to  suim  far  out  and 
dive  from  high  places  and  all  that,  but  now — not  now." 

It  was  hard  to  imagine  that  she  had  once  been  slim 
and  Hthe  as  any  of  these  nymphs.  It  was  hard  to  imagine 
that  Muriel  would  one  day  be  seated  buxomly,  perhaps 
on  the  same  divan  of  sand,  and  speaking  so  of  her  own 
daughter.  Worthing  wondered  who  would  be  the  father 
of  that  far-away  daughter. 

"Hello!" 

Worthing  looked  up.  Muriel  and  her  father  were 
standing  over  them,  smiling  down.  Mtiriel  was  swaddled 
up  in  a  loose  cloak.  Jacob,  the  Titan  of  business,  was 
bare-legged,  bare-armed,  bare-footed,  bare-headed.  He 
made  a  fine  figure  of  a  man  of  age. 

Muriel  expressed  great  siuprise  at  seeing  Wortliing. 
He  was  glad  to  feel  that  it  was  mingled  with  delight. 
He  rose  to  his  feet  and  blushed;  and  she  blushed,  too. 

In  other  times  and  other  climes,  when  parents  selected 
their  children's  spouses  for  them,  a  girl  was  thought  en- 

486 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

lightened  indeed  if  she  had  her  futtire  husband  pointed  out 
to  her  when  he  passed  her  window  in  his  long  robe.  And 
if  she  gave  him  a  gUmpse  of  her  eyes  through  a  lattice  or 
a  wave  of  the  hand,  she  was  dangerously  near  an  ad- 
venturess. 

Yet  wickedness  was  not  unknown  then,  and  the  favorite 
romances  of  those  times  are  so  licentious  that  they  are  not 
considered  fit  reading  for  the  youth  of  our  day  who  are 
clad  scantily  and  hardly  watched  at  aU.  Yet  there  are 
good  girls  and  boys  to-day,  honest  loves  and  decent 
marriages. 

In  any  case,  those  who  believe  in  eugenic  imions  should 
welcome  the  inspections  that  take  place  at  the  beaches. 
In  any  case,  it  is  not  altogether  undesirable  that  two  peo- 
ple who  might  form  a  lifelong  alliance  should  be  given 
opportunity  to  know  each  other's  frames  without  the  Hes 
and  hypocrisies  of  costtune. 

If  lovers  could  only  know  each  other's  souls  beforehand 
in  equal  undress,  the  business  of  mating  might  not  be 
so  fertile  in  disappointments.  But  mating  souls  take 
refuge  in  the  glamour  of  moonshine  and  in  the  deceptions 
of  party  manners  and  falsely  exalted  moods,  and  the 
gyves  are  already  snapped  at  the  altar  before  he  can  see 
how  she  behaves  when  the  cook  marches  out  or  she  how 
he  behaves  when  the  bills  march  in. 

Worthing  and  Muriel  found  each  other  beautiful  of 
body.  But  their  bodies  were  only  half  of  their  life.  Their 
souls  they  found  beautiful,  too;  but  these  were  still 
dressed  up  in  the  gorgeous  habiliments  of  romance,  of 
diversion  unhampered  by  the  demands  of  every -day 
life. 

They  had  not  seen  each  other's  souls  in  bathing-suits. 
That  test  was  yet  to  come. 

Meanwhile  there  was  the  ocean,  and  Worthing  was  eager 
to  be  in  it.  The  best  part  of  it  was  that  Winnie  Nicolls 
was  not  there,  nor  any  other  rival  that  he  knew  of. 

"Come  on,"  he  said;  "I'll  race  you  to  the  float." 

487 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Muriel  put  up  her  hands  to  throw  off  her  cloak,  when 
Perry  Merithew,  dancing  with  Aphra,  whirled  her  way. 

Perry  recognized  Muriel  before  she  did  him.  She  had 
never  seen  him  in  just  his  skin  and  a  few  yards  of  jersey 

As  soon  as  he  saw  her  Perry  flung  Aphra  off  with  the 
curtest  of  "pardons."  Aphra  saw  him  greeting  Muriel. 
His  homage  was  evident  in  the  back  of  his  neck.  Aphra 
was  as  angry  as  Worthing  was. 

"We're  just  going  into  the  water,"  said  Muriel. 

"So  am  I,"  said  Perry. 

"We're  going  to  race  to  the  float,"  said  Muriel. 

"I'll  bet  you  can  beat  me,"  said  Perry. 

"Come  on,  CHnton,"  Muriel  cried,  and  they  ran,  splash- 
ing through  the  low  froth,  sidling  through  the  mid-waves, 
and  diving  through  the  breakers. 

Worthing  put  aU  his  mettle  into  his  Australian  crawl, 
and  was  happy  to  find  that  he  was  first  to  the  float  by 
half  the  distance — ^till  he  realized  that  the  canny  Perry 
was  hanging  back  and  companioning  Muriel.  This  race 
was  not  to  the  swift. 

Merithew  was  an  excellent  swimmer  and  a  neat  and 
graceful  diver.  But  he  took  care  not  to  exploit  his  gifts 
so  much  that  he  lost  sight  of  Miuiel. 

Worthing  could  not  shake  him  off,  and  he  did  not  enjoy 
competing  for  Mviriel's  attention.  When  Jacob  came 
out  puffing  and  tmned  the  crowd  of  three  into  a  conven- 
tion. Worthing  gave  up.  Besides,  he  really  had  a  patient 
whom  he  had  secured  through  the  absence  of  another 
doctor  and  did  not  wish  to  lose  by  his  own. 

So  he  told  Muriel  good-by.  She  warmed  his  blue  soul 
with  an  invitation  to  lunch  with  her  somewhere  on  the 
morrow.  She  had  to  be  in  town,  she  said.  He  loved 
her  enough  to  warn  her  that  she  wotild  better  stay  away 
tin  the  hot  wave  had  passed  its  crisis,  but  she  said  that 
she  could  stand  it  if  all  the  other  millions  cotild. 

They  clasped  wet  hands  and  he  dived  his  best.  She 
called  him  back.     He  stood  treading  water  while  she  said: 

488 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"I  just  remembered.  I  may  go  to  town  this  evening 
after  dinner  and  spend  the  night  at  home  so  that  I  can  be 
up  bright  and  early  in  the  morning.  Are  you  busy  this 
evening?" 

Worthing's  heart  grew  heavy  enough  to  sink  him. 
Dr.  Eccleston,  whose  assistant  he  was,  had  mapped  out 
that  evening  for  a  round  of  visits  with  him,  including  an 
examination  of  Happy  Hanigan's  condition. 

"I'm  terribly  sorry,"  said  Miuiel. 

"Not  half  so  sorry  as  I  am,"  said  Worthing,  and  swam 
away  Hke  a  disconsolate  shark. 

Perry  Merithew  was  not  saddened  at  all.  He  dared  not 
invite  Muriel  to  intrust  her  evening  to  him,  because  her 
father  was  within  earshot  and  would  not  go  away.  But 
Perry  made  his  own  resolves. 

When  Muriel  went  ashore  at  last,  and  bade  him  good- 
by,  he  found  Aphra  Shaler  waiting  for  him.  She  was 
virulent  with  rage. 

"How  dared  you  throw  me  over  like  that?"  she  stormed. 
"One  minute  you're  dancing  with  me,  the  next  you 
chuck  me  and  never  come  back.  If  I  could  have  swam 
that  far  I'd  have  come  out  there  and  scratched  your  eyes 
out — and  hers,  too.  Whyn't  you  introduce  me  to  that 
Schuyler  brat?" 

"She's  partictilar  whom  she  meets,"  said  Perry. 

"  Not  very  when  she  sits  out  there  on  the  float,  showin' 
off  her  shape  and  swimmin'  round  with  you.  I  guess  she's 
like  those  other  fast  millionaires,  all  right."  ' 

Perry's  eyes  blazed.  His  voice  was  low,  but  his  wrath 
was  evident.  "Leave  Miss  Schuyler  out  of  it,  do  you 
hear?  I  won't  allow  a — a —  I  won't  allow  a  woman  like 
you  to  mention  her  name  to  me.     Do  you  luiderstand?" 

"Oh,  I  see!"  Aphra  sneered.  "You're  as  far  gone  as 
that.  Well,  you  can  have  her,  for  all  I  care.  But  you've 
got  to  get  me  my  dinner  first  and  get  me  back  to  town.  I 
was  fool  enough  to  listen  to  your  con.  voice  again,  and  my 
gentleman  friend  got  sore  and  went  home.  I  'm  stranded. 
i6  489 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Somehow  this  amused  Perry.  He  said,  "I  haven't  a 
cent  on  me." 

And  he  walked  back  to  the  bath-house.  When  he  was 
dressed  he  took  care  to  escape  without  providing  for 
Aphra's  return.  He  felt  that  she  coiild  take  care  of  her- 
self.    He  was  going  back  into  the  company  of  the  good. 


CHAPTER  LIX 

WHEN  Muriel  reached  her  home  she  rang  the  bell 
several  times  Mrithout  response.  She  began  to 
search  in  her  befuddled  handbag  for  the  latch-key  she 
had  been  allotted  at  the  time  when  she  began  coming 
home  at  aU  hovirs  from  dances;  for  the  Schuylers,  being 
merciful  people,  had  mercy  on  their  servants.  Muriel 
had  just  found  the  key  when  the  door  was  opened  by  the 
second  man. 

In  place  of  the  usual  hospitality  of  Kane's  smile  at  the 
sight  of  her  his  face  dropped.  But  as  we  sometimes  fail  to 
hear  what  has  been  said  till  we  have  repeated  it  in  our 
minds,  so  Miuiel  did  not  really  see  his  expression  till  she 
was  not  looking  at  it.  Then  she  paused  on  the  stairway 
to  say: 

"Oh,  Kane!" 

"Yes,  Miss." 

"You  looked  sad  when  you  saw  me." 

"Oh  no,  Miss!" 

"Oh  yes,  Kane!    Have  I  broken  up  anything?" 

"Oh  no,  indeed!" 

"Were  you  going  to  have  a  little  party  here?" 

"Not  here — oh  no! — no,  indeed!" 

"Where,  then?" 

"It  really  doesn't  matter.  Miss." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  spoil  any  fun  you  planned.  You 
don't  get  much,  staying  in  town  this  horrible  weather." 

"Why,  thank  you,  we  were  going  to  take  a  little  ride 
to  Coney  Island  and  back,  owing  to  the  heat — ^but  it  isn't 
necessary." 

491 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Oh  yes,  it  is!    I  insist." 

"We  couldn't  very  well  leave  you  alone  in  this  big 
house,  Miss — though,  of  course,  Mrs.  Lunney  would  be 
here;  and  the  night  watchman  patrols  the  block;  but — 
Oh  no,  thank  you." 

"Run  right  along.  I'm  going  to  bed  early,  anyway. 
Just  see  that  I'm  called  at  eight,  and  send  my  breakfast 
up  at  half  past,  for  I've  got  an  important  meeting  at 
ten." 

"Yes,  Miss,  but  really,  I  hardly  like — " 

"Not  another  word,  Kane.  I  wouldn't  stay  in  myself 
if  I  didn't  have  to.  The  town  is  like  a  furnace.  It  would 
break  my  heart  to  think  that  I  kept  you  here." 

"It's  very  good  of  you,  Miss,  but  really — " 

"Good-by." 

Muriel's  own  maid  was  at  the  country  house,  and  a 
chambermaid  came  up  to  supply  her  place,  but  Muriel 
ordered  her  to  go  about  her  pleasure.  It  is  thus  that  one 
becomes  a  heroine  to  one's  chambermaid,  and  that  io 
being  a  heroine  indeed. 

Muriel  watched  from  her  window,  and  soon  a  chauffeur 
drove  up  in  a  touring-car.  Muriel  could  not  make  out 
who  he  was,  or  whose  car  he  drove,  but  she  knew  that 
when  the  owners  are  away  the  chauffeurs  will  play.  She 
watched  the  truant  servants  pile  in,  and  she  prayed  that 
the  motor-picnic  might  not  end  with  the  disaster  of  so 
many  such  excursions  from  below-stairs. 

Mrs.  Lunney  stopped  in  on  her  heavy  pilgrimage  to 
the  attic  to  see  if  she  could  be  of  service ;  but  Muriel  sent 
her  on  her  way.  She  tried  to  read,  but  the  light  drew 
wire-voiced  mosquitoes,  suicidal  moths,  and  beetles  that 
blundered  about  like  random  bullets.  She  let  down  her 
hair,  but  it  was  too  hot  about  her  shoulders,  and  she 
fastened  it  up  again  in  two  coils.  She  sat  in  the  dark 
by  the  window,  gazing  into  the  shadowy  demesne  of 
Central  Park,  and  watching  the  passage  of  the  motor- 
'buses,  their  upper  decks  filled  like  window-boxes  with  a 

492 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

swaying  foliage  of  humanity — prisoners  in  town  hunting 
an  artificial  breeze  in  the  speed  of  the  'bus  and  enjoying 
automobiling  at  the  wholesale  rate  of  ten  cents  for  each 
five  miles  or  more. 

No  amount  of  wealth  could  persuade  a  zephyr  to  blow 
through  even  the  Schuyler  windows.  The  air  was  singu- 
larly lifeless,  and  Muriel  envied  the  lucky  ones  who  could 
go  'bus-riding.  If  she  had  not  known  that  Dr.  Worthing 
was  otherwise  engaged  she  would  have  dared  to  ask  him 
to  take  her  out.  She  felt  peculiarly  forlorn,  greatly 
tempted  to  use  the  franchise  of  the  American  girl,  and  go 
by  herself. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  once  described  a  plot  he  had 
for  a  story  he  had  never  written:  A  man  found  himself 
the  only  living  being  in  a  great  city;  everybody  else  was 
dead  through  some  mysterious  visitation.  He  wandered 
the  empty  streets  in  desperate  loneliness,  and  returned 
at  last  to  his  dismal  home.  He  sat  there  in  utter  solitude 
and  despair,  and  then  suddenly — he  heard  the  door-bell 
ring. 

Muriel  was  in  such  a  plight.  So  far  as  she  was  con- 
cerned, New  York  was  an  abandoned  farm,  the  passers-by 
were  wraiths  merely.     And  then  the  telephone  rang. 

"There's  something  in  telepathy,  after  all,"  she  thought, 
as  she  hastened  to  it,  feeling  a  kind  of  gratitude  to  the 
rubber  oracle.     "Clinton  got  my  spirit  messages  at  last." 

She  greeted  space  with  a  cordial  "Hello!"  and  space 
greeted  her  with  another. 

"Hello!     Is  Miss  Schuyler  there?" 

Her  voice  grew  somber  with  disappointment.  "This  is 
Miss  Schuyler." 

"How  are  you?     This  is — " 

"Oh,  hello,  Mr,  Merithew!     And  how  are  you?" 

"Crazy  with  the  heat.  What  are  you  doing  this 
evening?" 

"Very  much  nothing." 

"Will  you  take  a  little  motor  ride  with  me?" 
493 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

*' Indeed  not." 

"I'm  horribly  lonesome." 

"You're  not  the  only  one." 

"Then  why  not  come  along  and  save  two  lives?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  quite  respectable." 

"There's  nobody  in  town  to  know.  That  makes  it  re- 
spectable." 

"Crowds  are  going  by  on  stages." 

"Then  let's  get  on  a  stage  and  ride.  It's  unutterably 
proper;   twenty  chaperons  on  every  'bus." 

"Some  other  time." 

"The  only  people  in  town  except  us  are  strangers  from 
the  far  West.     We  might  as  well  be  masked." 

She  resented  this,  but  it  reassured  her,  and  after  a  little 
further  parley  she  answered,  "All  right." 

"Shall  I  call  for  you?" 

"No;  I'll  slip  out  and  meet  you  at  the  comer.  You  go 
there  and  wait.  I'll  watch  for  you  from  here,  and  when 
you're  there  I'll  come." 

"Fine  for  you!  I'll  not  be  a  minute.  I'm  only  a  few 
blocks  away — at  a  drug-store." 

vShe  felt  that  she  ought  not  to  go,  and  that  made  it 
more  interesting.  She  tiptoed  about  with  delicious  stealth 
and  foimd  her  hat  in  the  dark.  She  took  two  hat-pins 
from  the  cushion  on  her  dressing-table.  One  of  them  was 
Maryla's  claw-gripped  amethyst. 

She  found  Perry  Merithew  waiting,  and  they  giggled 
like  runaway  children.  They  hailed  the  first  north-bound 
'bus  and  climbed  to  the  upper  deck.  They  found  two  seats 
together,  and  the  motion  of  the  stage  swept  their  faces 
with  a  benison  of  fresh  air.  They  talked  of  nothing  much 
but  the  tyranny  of  the  weather,  all  the  way  up,  and  they 
kept  their  places  when  the  stage  turned  back.  When 
Muriel  suggested  getting  out  at  her  home,  Perry  begged 
her  to  complete  the  voyage  to  Washington  Square.  She 
consented. 

494 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

By  and  by  the  comfort  of  the  high,  cool  voyage  affected 
her  as  happiness  usually  did — it  made  her  eager  to  share 
it.  She  began  to  talk  of  her  poor  who  could  not  know 
such  luxury: 

"I'd  like  to  charter  a  hundred  of  these  'buses  and  give 
them  all  a  ride." 

"An  excellent  idea,"  said  Perry.  "For  a  thousand 
dollars  a  night  you  could  take  quite  a  few  of  them  up  and 
down  the  Avenue  and  show  them  what  they're  missing." 

"It  seems  a  crime  for  us  to  have  so  much  and  they  so 
little.  All  these  palaces  and  churches  locked  up  and  this 
street  empty,  and  those  poor  souls  crowded  into  such 
stifling  hovels!" 

"Are  you  going  to  become  one  of  those  ghastly  socialists 
who  don't  believe  in  letting  anybody  have  anything 
because  everybody  can't  have  everj^hing?  And,  after  all, 
we  haven't  so  much.  A  man  can  only  wear  one  suit  of 
clothes  at  a  time  and  eat  one  meal  at  a  time;  and  the  less 
he  eats  the  happier  he  is,  no  matter  how  rich  he  is." 

"But  to  toil  and  slave  the  way  they  do!" 

"There's  no  tmhappiness  like  being  idle,"  he  answered, 
glibly.     But  even  she  caught  that  fallacy: 

"They  have  the  idleness,  too — thousands  and  thousands 
are  out  of  work.  And  idleness  means  to  them  that  they 
can't  even  get  their  one  meal  at  a  time." 

"Oh,  I  fancy  there's  just  as  much  real  tmhappiness  in 
the  mansions  as  in  the  tenements." 

"Have  you  ever  seen  the  tenements?" 

"No,  and  I'm  proud  of  it." 

"Well,  I've  seen  a  Httle  of  them  and  I'm  not  proud  of 
them." 

"I  hate  slimis,"  said  Perry. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Muriel.  "So  do  the  people  that  live 
in  them.  You  really  ought  to  see  how  they  Uve.  It 
would  break  your  heart." 

"Thanks.  That's  a  good  enough  reason  for  staying 
away." 

495 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"No,  it  isn't.  It's  our  duty  to  know  how  our  poor 
relations  are  getting  along.  You  dared  me  to  take  this 
ride.  I  dare  you  to  go  over  there.  Perhaps  I  can  get  you 
interested  in  the  sufferings  of  the  poor  poor." 

"What  good  could  I  do  for  them?" 

"The  Httle  Italian  boy  is  safe  at  home  because  of  you, 
and  Happy  Hanigan  is  getting  uncrooked.  You  might 
find  somebody  else  to  help." 

"Heaven  forbid!  Your  first  Httle  trip  cost  me  two 
thousand  dollars  already.  That  will  have  to  stand  for 
my  contribution  this  year.  And  it  got  you  kidnapped  and 
you  escaped  with  a  lot  of  head-line  fame.  You'd  better 
keep  away,  or  the  bandits  will  get  you  again  if  you  don't 
watch  out." 

The  stage  was  entering  Washington  Square  through 
its  isolated  arch  of  triimiph,  which  has  led  to  nothing 
triimiphant  since  the  old  pleasance  -  ground  of  the  aris- 
tocracy was  captured  by  the  tenement  populace.  On 
every  bench  they  were  draped,  -Italians  mainly,  \\ith  num- 
berless children  fast  asleep  on  their  mothers'  laps  or  in 
the  baby-wagons  or  on  the  stint  of  grass. 

There  was  infinite  pathos  in  their  unconscious  postures, 
and  Muriel  was  determined  not  to  go  home  till  she  had 
emptied  her  hands  of  some  mercy. 

"Come  along,"  she  said,  and  started  down  the  hazard- 
ous steps. 

Merithew  followed  perforce. 

They  found  South  Fifth  Avenue  dingy,  and  turned  east 
in  Blcecker  Street.  The  big  warehouses  were  deserted, 
but  wherever  there  were  residences  or  boarding-houses 
their  high  stoops  were  filled  with  men  and  women  and 
children  either  relaxed  in  sleep  or  awake  and  watching  as 
if  for  help  to  come  from  somewhere,  if  only  a  bit  of  motion 
in  the  suffocating  atmosphere. 

The  Bowery  did  not  look  miserable  enough  to  be  inter- 
esting, and  Muriel  went  on  to  First  Avenue,  where  the 
Elevated    tracks    added    noise    and    gloom.     Then    she 

496 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

turned  south  with  Perry,  who  protested  that  his  ears  and 
his  nostrils  were  being  persecuted.  But  Muriel  would 
not  relent. 

In  Allen  Street  there  was  stiffering  in  plenty  for  the 
most  avid  heart.  The  dark  alley  was  ovened  in  by  the 
tracks  of  the  Elevated  Road,  its  thick-set  iron  pillars 
forming  a  gigantic  gridiron  where  the  people  squirmed  or 
rested  inert  like  lobsters  broiled  aHve;  for  some  had  been 
cooked  to  inanition  and  some  still  wriggled. 

The  street  was  filled  from  curb  to  curb,  and  the  walks 
and  stoops  from  curb  to  wall  on  either  side.  Throngs 
moved  slowly  or  stood  exchanging  comments  on  the  tor- 
ture of  the  day  and  the  night.  It  had  been  a  famous 
battle  with  the  heat,  and  people  told  of  their  struggles  for 
breath  as  of  incidents  in  a  combat.  There  had  been 
several  deaths  and  numberless  prostrations.  The  hos- 
pitals had  been  busy,  and  the  ambulances  had  gone 
clanging  in  all  directions.  And  bigger  ambulances  had 
lumbered  through  the  town,  carrying  off  the  horses  that 
had  fallen  in  dozens. 

The  humidity  had  added  its  lash  to  the  rack  of  heat, 
the  children  had  been  too  Hstless  to  play,  and  the  night 
found  them  fretful  and  distraught. 

Most  of  the  men  in  Allen  Street  went  about  with  their 
coats  on  their  arms,  but  even  here  there  were  some  descend- 
ants of  Shadrach,  Meshach,  and  Abednego  who  walked 
this  fiery  furnace  without  wilting  their  starch.  The  art  of 
ready-made  clothing  enabled  them  to  dress  a  Httle  more 
foppishly  than  Merithew  dared.  There  were  women,  too, 
who  kept  themselves  neat  in  spite  of  all,  so  that  there  was 
nothing  especially  foreign  in  the  appearance  of  Muriel" 
and  Perry,  and  no  attention  was  paid  to  them  by  wretches 
too  full  of  the  problem  of  endurance  to  note  or  remember 
who  went  by  staring.  Besides,  the  slumsters  are  always 
being  inspected  and  their  interest  blvirs  like  that  of  freaks 
in  a  dime  museum. 

These  myriads  had  stewed  all  day  at  their  tasks,  and 

497 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

their  eyes  smarted  with  the  sweat  that  had  run  into  them. 
The  one  thing  that  could  have  excited  them  would  have 
been  a  little  shaking  of  the  blanket  of  hot  air. 

Push-carts  were  aligned  for  miles.  The  stock  beneath 
was  protected  wath  oilcloth  covers,  and  on  these  bunchy- 
couches  hundreds  of  youngsters  sprawled  in  all  stages 
of  dress  and  tmdress.  At  the  side  of  the  push-carts  the 
fathers  and  mothers  slept  seated  on  chairs  or  boxes,  their 
heads  bent  forward  on  the  carts,  as  if  they  had  fallen 
asleep  over  vain  old  prayers. 

Chairs  and  benches  were  planted  in  the  street  and  on 
the  walks  so  thickly  that  it  was  hard  for  Perry  and  Muriel 
to  move  about  without  waking  some  fagged  wretch  whom 
sleep  had  blessed  at  last.  They  picked  their  way  like 
Dante  and  Vergil  slumming  in  hell. 

Everywhere  there  were  children  burdening  laps  or  arms, 
and  always  they  had  the  preference  in  the  choice  of 
lesser  evils. 

Cellar  doors  were  at  a  premium,  and  on  one  of  them 
an  ancient  grandmother  in  Israel,  with  her  brown  wig 
fallen  from  her  white  hair,  lay  on  her  back,  with  only 
a  shopping-bag  for  pillow.  In  one  fat  arm  a  fat  little 
girl  was  coiled. 

Seated  on  a  chair  alongside  was  a  mother,  lean  and 
scrawn  and  ugly  as  one  of  the  Madonnas  they  carved  in 
wood  in  medieval  Germany,  and  across  her  lank  knees  lay 
a  child  gaunt  and  starved  and  rigid  as  wood.  Both 
seemed  ready  and  labeled  to  die. 

The  mother  looked  from  her  too  large  eyes  at  some- 
thing far  away  or  near  and  vague,  and  stared  so  fixedly 
,that  when  Perry  and  Miuiel  passed  in  front  of  her  her 
vision  did  not  waver.     They  seemed  not  to  interrupt  it. 

On  the  steps  next  to  her  a  man,  her  husband,  perhaps, 
bare-footed  and  clad  only  in  trousers  and  undershirt, 
drooped  like  a  broken  puppet,  his  arm  thrust  through  the 
railing  and  hanging  pakn  up,  begging.  His  face  had  no 
softer  pillow  than  the  rusty  iron  rail. 

498 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Muriel  paused  beyond  this  family  to  brood  over  it. 
"If  this  is  better  than  their  own  home  inside,  what  must 
their  home  be ?"  she  whispered.     "I  ought  to  do  something  - 
for  them,  but  it  seems  a  shame  to  wake  them  up." 

"Once  you  begin,  where  will  you  stop?"  said  Perry. 
"Look  up  there!" 

Muriel's  eyes  followed  his  gesture,  and  she  saw  the 
dreadful  freight  of  distress  piled  up  in  layers. 

On  the  fire-escapes  mounting  in  tier  on  tier  people  were 
scattered  as  if  there  had  been  a  battle  in  the  sky  and  it 
had  rained  human  bodies,  and  they  had  caught  there  as 
they  fell.  A  few  of  the  more  modest  had  hung  up  clothes 
and  sheets  to  give  them  privacy.  Others  were  too  deso- 
late to  care  whether  they  were  seen  or  whether  they 
dropped  down  from  their  racks  of  torture. 

"If  I  were  God,  I'd  send  a  little  breeze  along  this 
street,"  said  Perry  Merithew. 

There  was  peculiar  anguish  in  the  feeling  that  the  one 
solace  these  hordes  of  woe  required  was  unpurchasable 
by  human  wealth  or  science  or  merit.  The  whole  region 
was  a  cathedral  of  prayer  to  the  god  of  the  barometer. 
Though  no  one  kneeled  or  upheld  hands  or  gabled  finger- 
tips together,  every  attitude  was  humbler  than  any 
genuflection. 

A  sweep  of  wind  would  have  been  greeted  as  the  pass- 
ing of  a  troop  of  angels.  And  any  rain  would  be  holy 
water.  But  these  mercies  did  not  come,  though  cyclones 
and  cloudbursts  were  harrying  unpeopled  wildernesses  else- 
where in  the  world.  And  there  was  no  promise  of  relief 
in  the  sterile  sky  with  a  moon  as  dry  as  old  ivory.  As 
to-day  was  bitterer  than  yesterday,  to-morrow  threatened 
to  be  worse  than  to-day,  when  the  cold  moon  should  give 
place  to  the  red-hot  brasier  of  the  sun. 

Suddenly  Muriel  paused  and  pointed  to  a  cavelike  door- 
way beyond  whose  dark  recesses  there  was  a  blue  curtain 
of  moonlight  shining  in  a  rear  court. 

"This  is  the  place  where  I  was  kidnapped,  I  think — if 
499 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

this  is  Allen  Street?  Yes,  it  is!  Let's  get  away  from 
here.     They  might  put  me  in  the  cellar  again." 

"Not  while  you  have  your  body-guard  with  you,"  said 
Perry,  arching  his  Httle  wicker  cane  as  if  it  were  a  Toledo 
blade.  "We'll  come  down  and  explore  it  together — to- 
morrow." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Muriel.  "One  visit  was 
enough." 

She  turned  and  retraced  her  way  through  the  endless 
spectacle  of  the  same  misery  in  manifold  forms.  Perry 
had  been  startled  by  the  realization  that  he  had  stumbled 
into  the  very  parish  of  Red  Ida  and  her  gunmen.  He  was 
glad  enough  to  hurry  away. 

Muriel,  already  lost,  led  him,  lost,  over  to  Orchard 
Street.  Here  she  paused  again  and  pointed  across  the 
crowded  lane.  "I've  been  here,  too.  That's  where  we 
found  the  poor  Balinsky  man  who  tried  to  kill  himself; 
but  Dr.  Worthing  saved  his  life.  That's  where  Maryla 
lives  —  Maryla  Sokalska,  a  beautiful  girl  with  the  piti- 
fulest  story.     I'll  tell  you  about  her  some  day." 

The  name  stabbed  Perry  like  an  assassin's  knife.  He 
felt  guilty  at  first,  and  then  his  ready  self-forgiveness  told 
him  that  if  he  had  rescued  the  girl  from  such  a  realm  as 
this  even  for  a  few  weeks,  he  had  not  done  altogether  ill 
by  her. 

But  when  Muriel  said:  "I  promised  her  I'd  talk  to  her 
father  and  mother  and  make  them  forgive  her.  I  wonder 
if  they  are  at  home  now.     Let's  go  up  and  see." 

"Let's  not,"  said  Perry,  sharply. 

"But  I  want  to  tell  them  about  Maryla." 

"They're  not  at  home,  I'm  sure.  Nobody  is.  Every- 
body has  moved  out  into  the  street." 

"No;  they're  not  over  there  on  the  walk.  .  I'd  know 
them ;  the  father  has  a  big  beard,  and  the  mother  is  fat ; 
and  that's  a  young  couple  sleeping  on  the  fish-block. 
Come  on.     I'm  going  up." 

Soo 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"But  they'll  be  asleep." 

"Maryla  says  they  always  work  till  midnight,  and  it's 
not  that  yet." 

She  was  having  another  of  her  impulses,  and  Perry  could 
not  dissuade  her  or  detain  her.  And  he  had  not  the  heart 
to  desert  her. 


CHAPTER  LX 

MERITHEW  felt  as  if  he  were  being  haled  before 
a  judgment  seat.  Of  course  the  girl's  parents 
would  not  know  hitn  by  sight.  Yet  Muriel  might  use 
his  name.  In  any  case,  he  dreaded  meeting  the  eyes  of 
Maryla's  parents.  If  they  did  not  know  him  it  would 
be  almost  more  himiiliating  than  if  they  did. 

He  resolved  not  to  go.  Muriel  was  already  in  the  door- 
way, beckoning  to  him.  She  shook  her  head  in  pity  for 
a  young  couple  sleeping  on  a  broad  fish-block  with  a  naked 
little  infant  between  them.  She  warned  him  to  step 
over  the  two  tiny  curly-haired  cherubim  sleeping  on  an 
old  shawl  on  the  very  door-sill. 

Perry  traversed  the  infants,  tmheeded  by  them  or  their 
parents,  but  when  he  put  out  a  hand  to  check  Muriel  she 
was  gone.  She  had  vanished  in  the  black  of  the  hallway 
and  was  hissing  at  him  to  come  to  the  stairway. 

She  kept  ahead  of  him  as  they  climbed.  He  followed  her 
with  increasing  anger.  But  how  could  he  leave  her 
there?  She  went  up  flight  after  flight  and  he  ran  in  her 
pursuit.  Suddenly  he  collided  with  her  in  the  dark. 
He  trod  on  her  toe.  She  gave  a  little  gasp  of  pain,  and 
now  it  was  he  that  was  the  offender. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  he  whispered,  caressing  her  shoulder, 
"but  you  oughtn't." 

"I'm  all  right,  but  I've  lost  my  way.  I  don't  know 
which  door  is  theirs.  I'm  afraid  to  knock  at  the  wrong 
one." 

"Better  come  back  in  the  daytime,"  he  urged,  clinging 
to  her  arm. 

502 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

**  But  now  that  I'm  so  near,  it  seems  a  pity  not  to  go  on." 

There  was  nothing  to  help  her  choice.  Behind  most 
of  the  doors  there  was  a  silence.  Behind  others  there 
were  quarrels  or  wailing  babies.  There  was  no  encourage- 
ment to  try  any  of  the  doors. 

And  it  was  asphyxiation  to  remain  in  the  hall.  The 
climb  had  set  them  both  to  panting  hard  and  the  air 
seemed  to  give  no  help  to  the  lungs.  There  was  a  mystery 
of  gloom  and  peril  about  them  and  an  uncanny  communion 
in  standing  so  close  together  that  they  could  hear  each 
other's  breath  and  could  not  see  an  outline.  Her  arm 
where  he  held  it  was  firm  and  warm  under  the  soft  sleeve, 
amazingly  alive. 

Perry  loved  the  dark,  and  a  dark  mood  grew  in  him — 
a  famiHar  mood  with  him  in  the  company  of  women,  but 
new  in  the  presence  of  Muriel.  His  new  thought  of  her 
seemed  to  make  another  girl  of  her.  She  did  not  shake 
his  hand  from  her  arm.  Was  she  encouraging  him  or 
was  she  unaware  of  his  clasp?  His  heart,  never  too 
regular,  began  to  race  like  a  propeller  out  of  water.  It 
hurt  and  scared  him. 

Muriel's  very  arm  seemed  to  be  thinking.  Suddenly  it 
moved  with  resolution,  and  she  whispered: 

"I'll  try  one  more  flight.  Then  I'U  knock  at  the  first 
door." 

"I  beg  you!"  he  said.  "Please  come  away  from  this 
odious  place." 

She  pressed  forward,  but  he  clung  to  her,  and  his  resist- 
ance brought  her  back  suddenly  against  him  with  a  delicate 
shock.  His  free  arm  quickened  to  seize  her,  but  she  shook 
it  off  with  a  sharp: 

"Don't!" 

She  said  it  with  girlish  impatience  and  with  preoccu- 
pation. 

He  let  her  go,  mumbling,  "I'm  sorry."  He  heard  her 
steps  on  the  stairs,  and  with  the  banister  for  guiding-clue 
he  followed  her,  struggling  after  her,  groping  toward  her, 

503 


EMPT^    POCKETS 

and  carr5dng  a  load  of  remorse  like  a  heavy  trunk  on  his 
back. 

He  had  disgraced  himself  before  his  own  heart,  and  he 
wondered  if  he  were  really  incapable  of  meeting  a  woman's 
trust  with  honor.  He  resolved  to  protect  Muriel  from  his 
old  self. 

Suddenly  Muriel  encountered  a  door  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs;  it  flew  open  before  her  hand  and  the  moonlight 
broke  in  upon  them.  Muriel  stepped  out  on  the  roof, 
and  Perry  after  her. 

It  was  emerging  from  all  prose  to  all  poetry,  for  now  he 
could  see  her,  yet  dimly,  with  a  mystic  edging  of  light 
along  her  whole  contour.  She  was  staring  into  the 
moonlight,  yet  drowned  in  it  as  if  she  were  a  sea-creature 
in  the  depths.  And  there  was  a  wonder  about  her  as 
about  painted  figures  whose  eyes  are  not  shown. 

The  air  up  here  was  deep  and  pure  and  oceanic,  though 
warm  and  still  and  tropical.  All  about  them  their  horizon 
was  a  saw-tooth  of  cornices  and  chimneys.  In  the  humid 
distance  were  lights :  some  of  them  were  the  tower  lamps 
of  high  buildings,  some  of  them  were  planets.  It  was  not 
easy  to  tell  them  apart. 

To  the  east  was  the  river  with  the  bridges  outlined  in 
limiinous  dots.  There  was  hardly  a  sound  except  their 
own  feet  scuffling  across  the  tin  of  the  roof  still  hot  from 
the  sun  and  uncooled  by  the  moon.  They  could  see 
nothing  but  the  walls  surrounding  the  roof  they  were  on, 
and  as  they  grew  used  to  the  light  it  proved  to  be  dirty  and 
littered.  They  understood  why  the  tenants  preferred 
even  the  sidewalks  to  this  well. 

Perry  grew  sick  of  the  place  and  disgruntled  at  Muriel's 
imbridled  curiosity.     But  she  laughed  as  she  commented: 

"It's  different  from  the  Ritz-Carlton  roof,  eh?"  Her 
voice  sounded  loud  to  her  and  she  lowered  it  in  defer- 
ence to  the  general  hush.  "  I  wonder  what  is  beyond  the 
wall,"  she  murmured. 

504 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

She  prowled  across  to  it  and  Perry  prowled  after  her. 
One  of  the  niimerous  clothes-lines  caught  him  in  the  face, 
and  he  vented  his  wrath  on  that.  He  took  from  his  waist- 
coat pocket  a  little  silver  knife  and  slashed  the  rope  down. 

"Ts!  ts!  ts !"  Muriel  clicked,  reprovingly.  "Some  poor 
woman  will  suffer  for  that.     Rope  is  expensive." 

"So  is  skin,"  Perry  snapped,  and  shut  the  knife  so 
angrily  that  the  blade  closed  on  his  left  palm  and  cut  it. 
It  bled.  He  whipped  out  a  handkerchief  and  bound  it 
up.  Muriel  knotted  it  for  him.  She  was  acutely  sym- 
pathetic till  she  saw  that  his  wound  was  not  serious. 

Then  her  curiosity  ruled  her  again,  and  she  said,  "I'm 
dying  to  see  what's  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall." 

"That's  the  woman  of  it,"  Perry  growled.  "That's 
what  bounced  Eve  out  of  Paradise.  She  foimd  out,  and 
stayed  out." 

With  a  sour  gallantry  he  pushed  a  rickety  old  packing- 
case  to  the  wall  and  set  it  on  end.  Then  he  helped  her 
to  mount  it,  and  she  gave  him  a  hand  up. 

Now  they  could  see  across  the  battlement,  and  the 
sight  was  grievous  enough.  They  could  look  down  from 
here  on  several  roofs,  more  flat  and  less  shut  in  than  the 
one  they  were  on. 

But  even  those  other  roofs  were  not  made  for  dormi- 
tories, and  they  offered  no  graces  or  conveniences.  Only 
the  worse  conditions  in  the  rooms  below  coiild  have  made 
them  tolerable. 

Over  the  nearest  tenement  it  seemed  as  if  a  plague  had 
passed,  leaving  its  victims  where  they  fell.  Some  of  them 
had  provided  themselves  with  bedding.  Others  slept  on 
the  tin.  One  middle-aged  woman  lay  alone  on  a  double 
mattress  with  a  sheet  over  her  and  her  head  on  a  pillow. 
She  was  an  aristocrat  among  paupers. 

With  their  feet  perilously  close  to  her  head  lay  a  man 
and  wife  on  the  bare  boards  of  an  old  box.  Just  beyond 
them  a  young  man,  half  clad,  snored  into  the  arm  across 
his  eyes.     Near  him  and  lying  on  her  face,  with  one  hand 

505 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

trailing  on  the  roof,  was  a  young  woman  in  chemise  and 
petticoat  and  stockings. 

In  the  middle  of  this  roof  was  a  family  of  six,  their  heads 
rolled  to  the  center  like  a  colony  of  melons,  their  bodies 
stretched  in  all  directions  outward.  In  the  least  comfort- 
able place  the  father  was  extended,  one  clumsy  foot  on 
top  of  the  other,  his  coarse  features  doubly  askew  with 
sleep  and  fatigue.  His  homely  wife  was  hung  along  the 
other  rim  of  the  mattress.  Between  them  their  five  chil- 
dren slept:  a  gawky  young  girl  on  her  back,  with  her 
hands  flopped  across  her  stomach  and  her  head  in  the 
neck  of  a  somewhat  older  girl  -without  youth  or  grace. 
That  one's  side  was  weighted  with  the  head  of  a  child  of 
ten  or  so  in  a  nightgown,  her  arms  and  calves  uncovered 
to  the  moon.  The  rriother's  hip  was  pillow  to  the  head 
of  the  oldest  girl,  recHning  with  a  kind  of  royal  majesty. 
She  belonged  to  beauty,  and  even  in  her  disarray  re- 
vealed a  wasted  symmetry  and  a  pity  of  lovableness. 

"The  poor  dear  things!"  sighed  Muriel,  v^'ith  a  dew  of 
tears  in  her  voice. 

"They're  like  earthworms  in  a  can!"  said  Perry  Meri- 
thew,  repugnance  sickening  his  pity. 

Muriel  sighed  again:  "I  don't  see  what  right  I  have 
to  all  I  have.  My  own  room  at  home  is  bigger  than  that 
whole  roof,  and  there  are  five — six — ^ten — fifteen  people 
sleeping  there.  And  I  never  do  any  work,  and  they  are 
tired  to  death.  I  feel  like  selling  my  pretty  canopied  bed 
and  all  my  silver  things.  And  I  will !  And  to-morrow  I'll 
come  down  and  fit  out  these  roofs  with  comfortable  places 
to  sleep.  They  work  so  hard  they  have  a  right  to  a  decent 
place  to  sleep,  haven't  they?    Haven't  they?" 

Partly  because  his  emotional  heart  was  not  immime 
to  the  mute  appeal  of  these  sufferers,  but  more  be- 
cause he  knew  that  she  wanted  him  to  feel  charitable, 
he  said: 

"You're  entirely  right,  as  usual.  Yes,  and  you  must  let 
me  help.    It's  a  bad  time  of  year  for  me,  and  I'm  terribly 

506 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

poor,  but  you  can  have  anything  I've  got — always — ^for 
anything  you  want  to  spend  it  on.  Here,  take  what  I 
have  now!  I  only  ask  you  to  save  out  enough  for  cab- 
fare  home.  And  while  you  are  seUing  your  silver  things, 
pawn  these  things  of  mine." 

To  his  own  amazement  and  hers  he  found  himself 
thrusting  into  her  hand  what  bills  he  had  in  his  wallet 
and  the  coins  in  his  pockets.  She  laughed  softly  in  de- 
Hght  at  his  prodigaUty,  and,  opening  her  handbag,  stuffed 
the  biUs  in  and  poured  in  the  coins.  And  while  it  was 
open  he  slipped  his  ring  from  his  finger  and  hfted  from  his 
scarf  the  black  pearl  that  was  generally  there,  and  took 
his  watch  from  the  chain. 

"Oh,  you're  wonderful!"  she  exclaimed,  dancing  on  the 
narrow  platform  and  almost  faUing  to  the  ground.  When 
he  seized  her  arms  and  rescued  her,  she  thanked  him  for 
that  also.  "You  are  such  a  good  man,"  she  said,  "when 
you  give  yourself  a  chance." 

"It's  you,  not  I,"  he  mumbled,  wondering  why  his 
voice  broke. 

"We  make  a  great  team,  then,"  she  said,  never  imag- 
ining how  he  had  longed  to  put  his  head  in  the  same  yoke 
with  her.  "We  ought  to  accompHsh  something  for  the 
poor." 

It  astounded  him  to  see  what  happiness  she  was  find- 
ing in  this  little  farce  of  charity.  It  made  her  beatifically 
beautiful.  If  she  had  been  at  a  greater  distance  he  could 
have  admired  her  merely.  On  an  altar  she  would  have 
won  him  to  his  knees. 

But  she  was  so  close  to  him,  so  completely  in  his  power, 
alone  with  him  in  this  jungle  of  animals,  that  oppor- 
timity  kept  whispering  to  him,  "Here  we  are  again.  You 
and  I  and  She." 

He  abhorred  himself  and  tried  to  wrench  his  mind  away 
from  such  forbidden  meditations.  He  made  a  tremendous 
effort  to  shake  off  the  old  habit  of  soul.  But  it  was  a 
craving  that  he  had  never  fought  before,  and  it  fought 

507 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

back  at  him  till  his  heart  was  riven  with  torment.  He  kept 
his  hands  from  her  shotilders  with  mighty  effort.  He 
gripped  the  ledge  and  turned  his  mind  to  the  paupers. 

He  tried  to  freeze  romance  out  of  his  mind,  and  to  curl 
his  Hp  to  sneers.  He  tried  to  cheapen  Muriel  to  himself 
that  he  might  restore  the  balance  of  his  faculties. 

"And  now,  yoimg  woman,"  he  laughed, with  a  dry  throat, 
"now  you've  got  all  my  money,  and  if  you  tossed  it  over 
there  it  wouldn't  keep  that  whole  roof -load  for  a  day.  It 
wouldn't  buy  them  a  breath  of  cool  air  or  an  ounce  of 
brains." 

"But  I'm  going  to  add  more  money  to  this,"  she  said, 
with  a  simplicity  that  was  maddening,  for  her  heart  was 
not  distressed  about  him  or  his  self-wrestle.  He  tried  to 
be  harsher  and  bitterer. 

"Suppose  you  did.  Suppose  you  took  all  the  money 
you  have,  and  all  your  father  has,  and  your  mother  and 
your  tmcle  and  aU  I  have,  and  all  our  friends  have — sup- 
pose you  made  up  a  purse  of  fifty  million  dollars,  and  scat- 
tered it  on  all  these  roofs,  how  long  would  it  last — ^how 
much  good  would  it  do?  Wouldn't  it  be  Hke  throwing  it 
into  the  ocean?  If  you  came  back  in  two  weeks  wouldn't 
you  find  poverty  still  here?  Some  of  the  paupers  would 
have  stolen  it  from  the  others,  some  would  have  wasted 
their  share  in  extravagance.  But  there  woiild  still  be 
poverty;   for  there  is  always  stupidity.'' 

"Don't  you  think  we  ought  to  try  to  help  the  poor?" 
she  queried,  like  a  child  rebuked.  "Doesn't  your  heart 
ache  for  the  poor  souls?" 

"My  heart  aches  for  everybody  if  I  let  it,"  he  sighed. 
"It  would  break  if  I  let  it  think  of  such  things,  and  so 
will  yours.  And,  after  all,  what  good  would  it  do?  If 
you  and  I  put  on  sackcloth  and  went  barefoot  through 
the  slums  of  this  one  town  all  our  lives,  would  the  slums 
know  the  difference  ?  If  you  gave  all  these  people  riches, 
wovild  they  be  happy?  Are  rich  people  happy?  If  these 
people  want  to  get  rich,  why  don't  they?    They're  no 

508 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

poorer  than  many  millionaires  were  once.  If  they  knew 
how  to  use  money  they'd  know  how  to  make  it." 

Muriel  had  no  arguments  ready  for  his  attack.  She 
had  acted  on  an  instinct  of  benevolence,  and  he  frightened 
that. 

"What  do  you  think  we  ought  to  do,  then?"  she  stam- 
mered, feeling  petty  and  ridiculous. 

"Take  the  goods  the  gods  provide!"  said  Perry,  wdth 
quickening  conviction,  for  now  at  last  he  was  talking 
about  his  one  religion.  "If  people  have  the  brains  or 
luck  to  earn  or  inherit  big  fortunes,  let  'em  spend  'em 
gracefully.  Put  the  beautiful  women  in  beautiful  clothes, 
in  beautiful  homes.  If  all  the  spare  cash  goes  to  the  beg- 
gars, how  are  we  ever  going  to  have  any  fine  buildings,  any 
art-galleries,  opera-houses,  or  theaters?  Must  everything 
go  for  bread — and  no  cake  for  anybody? 

"Why  should  you  turn  yourself  into  a  shabby  sister 
of  charity?  It  would  only  destroy  your  beauty.  That's 
the  most  precious  thing — beauty.  It  melts  away  if  you 
cry  too  much  or  feel  too  sorry  for  yourself — or  other 
people.     Keep  beautiful.     Beauty  is  your  duty." 

Somehow  he  had  robbed  her  of  her  crusade  without 
angering  her.  He  had  left  her  so  idle-hearted  that  his 
praise  of  herself  came  as  a  help,  and  she  felt  meekly  grate- 
ful for  it.  And,  after  all,  charity  is  impersonal  and 
general,  while  flattery  is  personal.  Benevolence  is  a 
manufacture  of  civilization,  but  courtship  is  primeval,  as 
old  as  the  moon  that  ogled  these  two. 

As  there  are  geniuses  in  music  and  color  and  form  and 
eloquence  and  statecraft  and  war,  so  there  are  geniuses 
in  wooing.  That  was  Perry  Merithew's  genius.  There 
is  no  type  or  pimctuation  that  would  convey  his  intona- 
tions or  the  spell  of  his  personality.  He  said  nothing  of 
any  moment,  but  his  voice  had  a  call  in  it;  it  evoked  the 
imagination  and  subdued  the  reason. 

The  young  Muriel  hstened  to  him  as  to  a  famous 

509 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

singer  in  a  foreign  tongue,  not  knowing  the  meaning 
of  the  words,  yet  thrilling  to  the  rise  and  fall  of  the 
melody. 

The  heart  of  the  night  made  the  ugly  roof  an  Egypt, 
and  filled  his  blood  with  a  sultry  sullen  rage  of  discontent 
that  was  like  a  desire.  Muriel  was  gazing  at  the  sleeping 
misery  before  her,  but  Perry's  voice  crooned  across  her 
shoulder  and  his  breath  touched  her  cheek. 

The  amorous  Mephisto  tried  to  weave  a  spell  about  her 
in  spite  of  himself,  for  his  skill  was  his  own  damnation; 
and  though  he  was  striving  against  himself  with  an 
angelic  longing  not  to  poison  this  sweet  soul,  he  feared 
that  both  of  them  were  doomed. 

He  smiled  with  torture,  but  she  was  so  drowsed  with 
reverie  that  when  he  murmured,  "Your  hat  is  too  big; 
it  hides  your  eyes  from  me,"  she  suffered  him  to  take  the 
pins  from  it  and  lay  them  on  the  ledge  of  the  wall,  and  to 
take  her  hat  away  and  toss  it  to  the  roof. 

Now  he  felt  that  she  was  too  beautiful  to  be  spared 
and  too  beautiful  to  be  destroyed.  The  fierce  magnetic 
forces  of  life  circled  about  them  in  a  coil  and  drew  them 
together.  Some  remnant  of  honesty  in  his  heart  con- 
tended for  her,  but  the  tyranny  of  his  past  conquered. 
The  insulation  of  distance  was  gone  and  he  was  struck  as 
with  a  lightning. 

Miuiel  had  not  noted  that  he  was  quivering  in  a  sudden 
ague.  She  did  not  know  of  the  self-duel  that  was  killing 
him,  the  spasms  of  self-reproach  that  were  throttling  his 
heart. 

She  was  good  and  she  was  young  and  she  trusted  him, 
and  he  could  not  protect  her  against  himself.  She  had 
brought  him  here  in  the  name  of  mercy,  and  he  could  find 
no  mercy  in  himself  for  her.  He  had  tried  to  be  honorable, 
and  he  could  not. 

With  a  mad  heartbreaking  snarl  he  clenched  his  arms 
around  her  as  if  he  would  crush  her,  his  hands  fluttered 
about  her  hair  in  a  satanic  benediction,  and  he  groaned 

510 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Muriel!  Muriel!"  as  his  lips  found  hers  and  he  clung 
to  her,  dying. 

The  kiss  on  her  lips  and  the  frenzy  of  his  embrace 
alarmed  her  at  last,  and  woke  her  from  reverie.  She 
attacked  him  like  a  wildcat.  And  she  was  strong  and 
fierce  with  wrath  at  his  desecration.  But  she  could  not 
shake  off  those  elbows  vised  about  her  shoulders.  She 
felt  his  fingers  tightening  slowly  in  her  hair  till  the  tears 
started  from  her  wild  eyes.  She  struck  at  him  with  all 
her  power  and  loathing. 

He  never  knew  that  she  hated  him.  His  heart  had 
wrecked  itself  with  its  own  war. 

As  Muriel  struggled,  the  box  they  stood  on  tilted  and 
fell.  Perry  went  backward,  dragging  Muriel  after  him. 
The  top  of  his  head  crashed  against  the  sharp  upper  edge 
of  a  molding  on  the  chimney.  The  impetus  and  the 
double  weight  cracked  his  skull  as  a  boy  smashes  a  doll's 
head.  His  body  rolled  across  the  face  of  the  chimney  and 
sHd  to  the  roof.  It  cushioned  Muriel's  fall,  but  she  was 
dazed  for  a  moment. 

If  any  of  the  people  on  the  other  roofs  heard  the  clatter, 
and  wakened,  they  must  have  gone  back  to  sleep  again, 
for  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  and  nothing  iurther  to 
be  heard. 

After  the  first  shock  Muriel  found  herself  crouched  on 
hands  and  knees  above  Perry's  motionless  form.  She 
thought  that  he  was  stunned,  and  she  was  hardly  less 
ferociously  angry.  She  would  never  speak  to  him  again. 
He  was  a  blackguard. 

But  she  could  not  free  her  hair  from  those  talons.  She 
tried  to  bend  his  fingers  back,  and  they  gtew  cold  as  she 
tugged  at  them. 


CHAPTER  LXI 

ONLY  slowly  she  understood,  and  if  her  heart  had 
been  as  weak  and  vice -ridden  as  Merithew's  she 
might  have  died  of  fear.  Her  instinct  to  shriek  was 
choked  by  the  ghoulish  horror  of  her  plight.  She  was 
chained  to  a  corpse  by  her  own  hair. 

She  moved  this  way  and  that,  hauling  after  her  the 
grisly  encumbrance.  She  sobbed  and  prayed.  She 
would  have  been  glad  to  die  if  it  were  not  for  the  shame 
of  being  found  so.  Shaking  her  head  Hke  a  trapped 
animal,  she  backed  nearly  to  the  penthouse  door  before 
she  gave  up  the  hope  of  running  away  from  her  captor. 
She  rested  again,  thinking,  scheming.  She  snatched  the 
hair-pins  from  her  hair  and  uncoiled  it  as  best  she  could 
and  tried  to  tear  herself  free.  But  she  could  not,  for  all 
the  excruciation  of  the  pain;  he  held  too  many  strands. 
He  seemed  to  he  there  grinning  at  her  efforts,  making  fun 
of  her  terror  as  he  had  made  fun  of  her  charity. 

But  his  fingers  had  closed  upon  the  outer  folds  of  her 
locks,  now  she  was  a  Httle  farther  away  from  his  moon- 
blue  face.  She  could  twist  her  head  up  through  her  hair 
a  Httle  to  ease  the  anguish  of  her  neck.  Yet  she  was  no 
nearer  freedom,  and  every  moment  brought  her  nearer  to 
discovery. 

Suddenly  she  remembered  that  Perry  had  cut  down  a 
clothes-hne  with  his  penknife.  Reluctantly  she  put  her 
trembling  hands  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  found  the 
knife  and  opened  it,  and  sawed  a  strand  in  two  close  to 
his  knuckles.  She  had  to  hold  his  hand  while  she  wielded 
the  knife,  and  the  horror  made  the  pain  nothing.     It  was 

512 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

from  the  horror  that  she  had  to  rest  again  before  she  could 
sever  another  lock. 

She  kept  listening  for  some  one  to  come  up  the  stairs. 
She  seemed  to  hear  footsteps  and  stealthy  sounds.  She 
was  afraid  to  look  now,  for  she  felt  that  people  had  gath- 
ered, and  were  watching  her,  whispering  to  one  another, 
mocking  her,  waiting  for  her  to  free  herself  that  they 
might  seize  her  for  the  murder. 

And  she  felt  sure  that  all  the  wretched  sleepers  on  the 
other  roofs  were  sitting  up  and  shivering  and  listening, 
and  gibbering  to  one  another  in  all  their  dialects:  "What 
was  that?"  "Who  is  the  dead  man?"  "Who  is  the 
woman  that  killed  him?" 

She  worked  with  desperation,  and  at  last  she  was  free. 
She  could  lift  her  head,  and  sit  up  and  throw  her  head 
back  and  expand  her  breast.  The  solace  of  release  was 
so  great  that  she  could  only  be  glad  at  first. 

Then  the  instinct  of  escape  took  hold  of  her  and  woke 
her  intelligence.  She  closed  the  knife  with  care  and 
dropped  it  into  her  handbag.  She  dusted  her  frock  and 
spatted  her  hands  together.  She  gathered  up  the  hair- 
pins, and,  sitting  on  her  haunches,  she  piit  up  her  dis- 
ordered hair  like  a  Lorelei  weirdly  triumphant  over  her 
prey.  But  there  was  no  Lorelism  in  her  heart.  She  was 
a  girl  alone  in  the  ruins  of  her  life,  with  only  her  scattered 
wits  to  help  her  to  bring  off  what  wreckage  she  might. 

She  felt  about  for  her  hat.  There  were  no  pins  in  it. 
Perry  Merithew  had  left  them  on  the  ledge.  One  of  them 
had  rolled  off  and  fallen  into  a  side  court.  She  could  see 
the  amethyst  head  of  the  other  pin,  but  it  was  above  her 
reach.  She  stood  on  tiptoe  and  leaped  up  to  clutch  at  it, 
but  it  was  too  high.  She  dared  not  wait  and  set  the  top- 
pled box  on  end  again.     She  must  be  gone. 

She  went  cautiously  to  the  penthouse  door.  She  was 
afraid  to  look  back.  She  entered  into  the  dark  and  stole 
down  the  stairway.  She  heard  quarreling  behind  one  of 
the  doors,  a  baby  meowling  behind  another.     She  hurried 

513 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

past.  She  stopped  short,  for  she  heard  two  men  coming 
up  the  stairs.  She  gave  herself  up  for  lost.  One  was 
saying: 

"Such  a  hot  I  never  seen  it.  That  Gehenna  woidd  be 
a  cooler  place  as  this  Neu  York.     Gut'  nacht!" 

The  other  answered  with  a  laugh:  "Gut*  nacht? 
Erschreckliche  nacht!  Woiss  as  gestern  it  was  and 
morgen  comes  woisser  yet." 

They  parted  and  went  into  opposite  flats  below.  She 
heard  the  doors  close,  and  she  flitted  down  and  down  till 
she  reached  the  main  hall.  The  two  babes  still  slept  on 
the  sill.  She  lifted  her  skirt  and  stepped  over  them. 
The  young  parents  and  the  infant  slept  on  the  fish-block, 
and  had  not  budged  through  all  the  ages  of  time  since  she 
had  left  them  there. 

In  the  street  the  crowd  was  thinner,  but  still  niimerous. 
More  people  were  asleep  on  the  chairs. 

She  saw  the  gaunt  wooden  mother  with  the  scrawny 
child  still  stretched  across  her  lank  knees.  The  woman's 
eyes  were  still  watching  the  approach  of  the  one  who  had 
not  come  to  her  in  her  poverty  and  despair,  but  had  flown 
to  the  roof  and  seized  upon  Perry  Merithew  in  his  pride. 

The  Hghts  in  Allen  Street  were  dim.  An  Elevated  train 
roared  overhead  in  a  swoop  as  of  pursuing  furies.  But 
nobody  noticed  Muriel  with  more  than  a  dreary  glance. 

She  walked  along,  frantically  dusting  her  frock,  lift- 
ing her  knees  to  brush  the  rust  from  them.  She  walked 
till  she  found  a  Second  Avenue  car.  It  was  so  crowded 
with  home-comers  from  Coney  Island  and  the  other 
beaches  that  she  had  to  stand.  The  men  were  yawning 
and  the  women  bedraggled  and  bleary  with  the  heat. 

She  rode  to  Forty-second  Street  and  walked  across  to 
the  Grand  Central  Station.  There  she  took  a  taxicab  to 
her  home.  She  gave  the  man  a  handful  of  silver — Perry 
Merithew's  silver. 

The  patrolman  v/as  coming  down  the  block  when  she 
let  herself  in  at  the  door  with  her  key.     She  made  a  casual 

514 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

smile  ready  for  any  servant  she  might  meet.  But  no  one 
saw  her.  The  marble  stairway  had  a  mausoleum  look. 
The  banister  was  cold  as  a  tombstone  under  her  flinching 
hand.     She  gained  her  room  unwitnessed. 

She  bathed  and  slipped  into  her  nightgown,  and  wept 
over  her  mangled  hair  and  trimmed  it  as  best  she  could- 

She  heard  the  servants  come  home  and  bid  muffled  good- 
nights  outside  to  the  chauffeiu-  and  exchange  soft  laughter 
over  the  memories  of  their  tawdry  carnival. 

Without  any  thought  of  irony,  she  drooped  to  her  knees 
and  thanked  God  for  His  bountiful  mercies  in  helping  her 
to  escape  to  the  seciirity  of  her  father's  home,  and  she 
begged  forgiveness,  though  she  was  not  siure  what  she 
asked  forgiveness  for. 

When  she  rose  she  heard  the  patrolman's  slow  footsteps 
as  he  sauntered  by.  He  was  there  to  protect  her.  But 
when  he  learned  what  she  had  done  he  would  force  his 
way  into  the  house  and  drag  her  to  jail. 

All  her  father's  wealth  could  not  shield  her  from  the 
law.  Could  God  Himself  shield  her  from  the  fact  that 
she  had  killed  ajnan,?  Poor  Perry  Merithew!  Lucky 
Perry  Merithew!  He  had  escaped  from  a  world  where 
such  things  could  be.  She  felt  ineffable  remorse,  but  she 
could  not  know  just  what  to  repent  or  where  her  mysteri- 
ous guilt  began. 

She  crept  into  her  bed.  The  sheets  were  cold  as  snow. 
She  drew  the  blankets  over  her  and  hid  her  face  under 
them  and  huddled  together  in  icy  throes  of  utter  dismay. 


CHAPTER  LXII 

ON  that  hot  night  in  July  among  the  hundreds  of 
wretches  whom  the  relaxed  laws  permitted  to  sleep 
in  Central  Park  one  poor  jade  of  the  shops  had  made  her 
bed  on  a  knoll  across  the  street  from  the  Schuyler  home. 
She  had  worked  hard  at  her  counter,  swaying  on  her  feet 
all  day,  and  gone  trudging  to  her  boarding-house  at  night, 
only  to  find  her  hall  bedroom  insufferably  stifling.  She 
had  walked  across  the  eastern  avenues  to  the  Park  and 
had  found  a  nook  there  among  the  shrubs  and  had  toppled 
over  on  the  dewless  grass. 

Sleepless  with  the  very  famine  of  sleep,  she  had  gazed 
at  the  dark  windows  of  the  Schuyler  mansion  and  had 
thought  of  its  lucky  tenants  vvdth  bitter  envy.  She  was 
an  average  girl,  who  had  been  averagely  honest  and  dis- 
honest. She  had  told  her  quota  of  lies,  had  cheated  her 
employer  modestly,  had  strayed  a  little  into  many  of  the 
by-paths  from  perfect  virtue.  But  she  had  not  been 
caught  nor  pimished  with  anything  except  continued 
poverty. 

She  saw  the  brief  light  in  Muriel's  room,  and  when  it  was 
quenched  the  dark  window  had  seemed  the  very  emblem 
of  cool  seciirity  and  peace  and  luxurious  content. 

She  had  roUed  on  the  grass  in  an  agony  of  covetousness 
and  had  moaned,  "O  Gawd,  whyn't  you  throw  some 
them  things  my  way?" 

Muriel,  if  she  had  known,  would  have  been  glad  to 
exchange  lots  with  her.  For  Muriel  in  her  palace,  in  her 
room  copied  from  the  Petit  Trianon,  in  her  bed  fit  for  a 
princess,  in  her  nightgown  of  silk  and  lace,  between  her 

Si6 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

sheets  of  sheerest  linen — Muriel  was  stretched  on  the  iron 
bed  of  remorse;  her  thoughts  were  the  thoughts  of  a 
murderess  escaped  by  a  miracle  whose  continuance  she 
could  not  hope  for. 

She  was  almost  more  bewildered  than  she  was  regretfid 
or  afraid.  She  could  not  explain  the  hideous  effect  by  any 
causes  that  she  could  trace.  They  were  so  innocent  and 
it  so  packed  with  guilt. 

She  could  say,  "I  ought  not  to  have  gone  out  riding  on 
the  'bus  with  Perry  Merithew,"  but  the  worst  of  that  was 
indiscretion,  and  its  heaviest  appropriate  penalty  a  little 
gossip.  Once  embarked  on  the  escapade,  she  had  tried  to 
redeem  it  by  taking  her  escort  to  the  slimis  in  the  hope  of 
engaging  him  and  herself  in  some  profitable  charity. 

She  could  say,  "I  ought  not  to  have  gone  into  that 
tenement  on  Orchard  Street,"  but  her  object  had  been  to 
reconcile  an  estranged  family  and  bring  home  a  lonely  girl. 

She  could  say,  "I  ought  to  have  turned  back  from  that 
roof  at  once,"  but  her  ctiriosity  had  been  for  education  in 
the  miseries  of  the  poor. 

She  could  say,  *T  ought  not  to  have  let  him  touch  me. 
It  was  odious  of  me  to  listen  to  his  amorous  voice.  It  was 
vile  to  linger  in  his  arms  for  even  a  moment."  For  that 
she  felt  ashamed  enough,  and  groveled  before  her  saner 
self.  But  the  penalty  for  that  at  most  should  have  been 
belittlement  in  his  eyes  and  her  own.  And  she  had 
speedily  recovered  from  that  spell  of  his  enchantment. 
She  had  immediately  hated  herself  and  fought  him  off. 

And  there  the  chaos  began. 

She  had  brought  upon  herself  the  guilt  of  murder  by 
saving  herself  from  the  guilt  of  dalliance.  Her  decency 
had  been  his  destruction  and  hers.  And  that  was  the 
puzzle  that  maddened  her. 

What  else  ought  she  to  have  done?  She  must  either 
have  let  him  have  his  infamous  way  with  her,  or  she  must 
have  resisted  him.  God  coiild  not  have  wanted  her  to 
yield;  it  was  her  better  soul  that  fought. 

S17 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

Then  why  did  God  make  him  die?  She  could  find  no 
due,  and  there  was  no  comfort  in  saying  that  the  htiman 
cannot  imderstand  the  divine. 

Justify  her  act  as  she  would,  its  consequence  was  the 
death  of  a  man. 

Once  she  had  killed  Perry,  what  ought  she  to  have  done? 
There  was  the  choice  of  calUng  in  witnesses,  or  of  trying 
to  escape.  It  was  imthinkable  that  she  should  have  re- 
mained there  on  her  hands  and  knees  with  her  hair  in  his 
cold  hands,  and  screamed  tiU  people  came.  They  would 
have  asked  her  questions  that  she  could  not  answer  ex- 
cept with  odious  impHcations  that  would  have  blasted 
her  good  name  for  life,  and  would  have  given  her  and  her 
father  and  her  mother  to  intolerable  disgrace. 

She  had  escaped  for  her  parents'  sake  as  much  as  her 
own.  She  owed  them  more  duty  than  she  owed  the  public 
or  her  companion.  She  was  completely  assured  that  she 
did  the  right,  the  only,  thing  to  do,  when  she  cut  herself 
free  from  Perry  Merithew's  fingers. 

Besides,  God  must  have  wanted  her  to  get  away,  or  He 
would  have  had  her  caught.  And  if  He  wanted  her  to 
get  away,  then  He  must  mean  for  her  to  get  away  for  ever. 
For  it  was  inconceivable  that  she  should  go  forth  in  the 
morning  and  say  to  the  people,  the  wondering  people: 
*'  I  killed  him!  I,  Jacob  Schuyler's  daughter,  the  daughter 
of  the  great  Jacob  Schuyler  and  his  good  wife,  killed  the 
notorious  Perry  Merithew  when  he  was  making  love  to 
me  at  midnight  on  a  lonely  roof.  And  when  I  found  that 
he  held  me  by  the  hair,  I  took  his  penknife  from  his  pocket 
and  sawed  my  hair  free.  See,  here  are  the  traces  of  his 
penknife  in  my  hair.  Match  my  hair  with  the  strands  he 
holds  and  see!  Now  make  me  a  scandal  to  the  world, 
and  cover  my  father's  and  my  mother's  white  heads  with 
ugly  shame." 

No,  God  could  not  ask  that !  Then  He  mtist  mean  that 
she  should  go  on  hiding  from  the  public  and  the  news- 
papers and  the  poUce.     For  if  she  told  the  people,  they 

Si8 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

might  not  believe  that  she  had  meant  no  harm  to  Perry 
Merithew.  They  might  not  beUeve  that  she  meant  only 
to  save  him  and  herself  from  a  miserable  wicked  deed. 
They  might  send  her  to  the  Chair!  Strap  her  to  that 
throne  of  dishonor  and  shatter  her  with  the  Hghtning.  She 
did  not  deserve  to  be  branded  and  pimished  as  a  murderess. 
Yet  Perry  Merithew  did  not  deserve  to  be  killed.  He  was 
a  bad  man,  but  not  a  murderer.  And  they  only  killed  mur- 
derers.    Yet  he  was  dead,  and  she  was  in  danger  of  death. 

Why?    Why?    Why? 

The  word  burned  in  her  brain  like  a  live  coal  that  will 
not  be  quenched  even  by  the  blood  that  seethes  wherever 
it  rests. 

She  said  the  word  over  to  herself  tmtil  it  became  gib- 
berish; she  shook  her  head  and  whispered,  No,  no,  no! 
till  that  word  became  the  uncouth  chattering  of  an  ape. 
Everything  she  said  to  herself,  in  that  long  dark  commu- 
nion in  the  cloister  of  her  arms  locked  over  her  head,  be- 
came jabber,  till  she  felt  that  she  was  going  mad,  was 
gone  mad. 

And  the  worst  fear  of  all  her  fears  was  that  in  her  mad- 
ness she  might  begin  to  babble  and  might  blab  the  truth. 

For  the  old  spirit  that  whispers:  "Tell  it!  Tell  it  to 
somebody!  Tell  it!"  was  whispering  it  to  her.  She 
squeezed  her  hands  across  her  ears,  but  the  whisper 
seemed  to  steal  in  between. 

It  was  too  much  agony  for  one  young  girl  to  bear,  and 
all  that  saved  her  was  that  she  was  not  strong  enough  to 
bear  it.  By  and  by  her  nerves,  like  wires  that  have  car- 
ried too  heavy  a  charge,  burned  out.  She  could  feel  no 
more,  regret  no  more,  think  no  more.  Exhaustion  came 
to  her  in  the  pardon  of  sleep. 

When  the  rays  of  the  risen  sun  like  a  cat-o'-nine-tails 
lashed  awake  the  dreary  slimiberers  on  the  grass  in  the 
Park,  and  on  the  benches,  and  the  chairs,  and  on  the  tene- 
ment roofs,  it  found  her  what  the  desolate  shop-girl,  drag- 

519 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

ging  herself  from  her  couch  to  her  counter,  imagined  her 
to  be — a  beautiful  figure  bHssfully  asleep  under  a  canopy 
of  silk. 

Long  after  the  shop-girl  had  finished  her  coffee  and  oat- 
meal in  the  quick-lunch  room,  and  had  taken  her  place  in 
the  narrow  aisle  along  the  shelves,  Muriel  was  awakened 
by  the  sound  of  water  set  running  in  the  marble  tub,  and 
by  the  timid  voice  of  the  housemaid: 

"You  left  word  to  be  called  at  eight,  Miss.  It's  half 
past  now,  please." 

Muriel  sat  up,  blinked  drowsily  at  the  famiHar  sur- 
roundings, and  wondered  why  she  felt  so  heavy-headed; 
why  every  muscle  ached;  why  she  felt  so  afraid. 

And  then  she  remembered  and  flung  herself  back  among 
her  pillows,  and  hid  her  face,  and  was  again  the  criminal, 
the  fugitive,  the  sneak  who  had  no  place  in  a  reputable 
home. 

She  whispered  to  the  maid:  "Go  away!  Leave  me 
alone!     Go  away!" 

But  the  maid  supposed  that  this  was  merely  the  usual 
protest  of  a  pretty  lag-abed  against  the  morning  outrage. 
She  was  full  of  sympathy,  but  she  urged:  "Beg  pardon. 
Miss,  but  you  said  it  was  important.  And  your  breakfast 
is  coming  up,  please." 

Muriel  nodded  obedience  and  beckoned  for  her  bath- 
robe, thrust  her  heavy  arms  into  it,  and  her  bare  feet 
into  the  Uttle  mules,  and  slimk  to  her  bath-room.  She 
felt  as  if  she  dragged  clanking  leg-irons  at  her  feet. 

She  longed  to  dro\vn  herself  in  the  hot  pool,  to  steep 
herself  in  obHvion,  and  let  her  soul  escape  hke  steam, 
palely  visible  one  moment  and  then  nothing.  But  when 
she  was  again  in  her  bed,  with  the  tray  of  breakfast  upon 
her  knees,  she  was  hungry.  The  iced  grape-fruit  was 
sharply  sweet,  the  egg  in  the  cup  was  full  of  savor,  and 
the  coffee  was  worth  living  for. 

On  the  tray  was  a  folded  morning  paper.  She  was 
afraid  to  open  it,  but  at  last  she  did,  as  gingerly  as  if  the 

520 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

ink  were  venomous.     She  saw  that  there  were  big  head- 
lines and  she  was  afraid  to  look. 

But  it  was  only  more  excitement  about  the  assassina- 
tion of  the  Archduke  of  Austria  and  his  wife.  The  deed 
had  been  done  a  month  ago,  and  as  far  away  as  Bosnia 
in  a  curious  unheard-of  place  called  Sarajevo.  A  young 
Servian  had  pistoled  them  both  to  death,  and  the  minor 
head-Hne  declared  that  the  result  of  the  act  might  reopen 
the  old  Balkan  trouble. 

It  was  all  as  remote  to  Muriel  as  Bosnia  itself.  She 
could  not  imagine  that  it  would  ever  affect  her  or  any  one 
she  knew.  She  searched  the  paper,  and  there  was  not  a 
line  about  her  own  assassination  of  Perry  Merithew.  She 
felt  a  tremendous  relief  for  a  moment.  Then  the  burden 
of  suspense  fell  back  crushingly  upon  her  aching  head. 

Still  a  little  dazed,  she  fumbled  in  her  mind,  wondering 
why  she  had  left  word  to  be  called.  Last  night  was  so  far 
away.  She  recollected  it  at  last.  There  was  a  meeting 
in  the  United  Charities  Building,  and  she  had  promised  to 
be  there.     WTiat  was  the  object  of  the  meeting? 

Something  about  children  playing  in  the  streets.  Oh 
yes.  One  day  she  had  invented  a  foolishly  pretty  scheme. 
So  many,  many  children  got  run  over  in  the  streets.  Yet 
the  children  had  no  other  place  to  play.  People  had  won- 
dered what  to  do,  since  they  could  not  keep  the  children 
indoors  all  the  time.  And  then  Muriel  had  had  the  sub- 
limely foolish  idea  that  since  the  children  could  not  be 
kept  off  the  streets,  the  wagons  and  m.otors  must  be. 
The  scheme  had  taken  the  shape  of  closing  certain  streets 
to  traffic  at  certain  hours. 

It  had  appealed  to  Muriel,  and  the  allegedly  heartless 
town  was  to  be  tu-ged  to  accept  it. 

It  was  as  amusingly  apt  as  an  Irish  bull. 

Muriel  smiled  at  the  thought  of  it.  She  would  go  to 
the  meeting.  She  must  go.  Her  absence  wotdd  create 
comment.  Her  presence  would  be  an  argtiment  for  in- 
nocence. 

17  S2I 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

And  then  she  remembered  that  Mrs.  Merithew  was  the 
chairman  of  that  committee. 

Muriel  thrust  the  tray  away  and  fell  back  on  her  pillows. 
She  could  not,  would  not,  dared  not,  face  the  wife  of  the 
man  she  had — she  could  not  think  the  word. 

But  sleep  would  not  take  her  back  into  its  nihilim. 
Ljnng  awake,  she  felt  helpless  before  the  world,  exposed, 
exhibited  to  the  eyes  of  mankind.  If  she  were  up  and 
moving  about  she  could  at  least  run. 

She  raised  herself  once  more  and  flung  into  her 
clothes.  The  bungling  ministrations  of  the  maid  who 
was  not  used  to  taking  care  of  her  or  her  things  tempted 
her  to  frenzies  of  rebuke.  She  could  have  screamed 
and  struck  at  her. 

But  she  held  in  her  temper,  and  was  desperately  patient. 
And  at  last  she  was  dressed  and  her  hat  was  on  and  she 
left  the  house.  She  would  not  wait  for  one  of  her  father's 
cars  to  be  summoned  from  the  garage.  She  walked  till 
a  taxicab  came  along,  and  when  she  got  in,  and  the  shoddy 
old  driver  leaned  out  to  hear  where  he  should  go,  she 
wanted  to  tell  him,  "Canada!"  But  she  told  him,  "The 
Charities  at  Twenty-second  Street  and  Foiuth  Avenue." 
And  she  rode  through  the  blithe  morning  streets  wonder- 
ing what  the  people  would  do  if  they  knew  what  she 
had  done. 

She  reached  the  meeting-place  and  told  the  taxi-man 
to  wait.  She  went  up  in  the  elevator  and  found  a  room 
full  of  women,  mostly  natrons  or  matronly  spinsters  with 
a  sense  of  general  motherhood.  Their  motives  were  those 
of  Sisters  of  Charity,  but  their  costumes  were  the  most 
fashionable. 

Mrs.  Merithew  greeted  Muriel  with  voluble  affection. 
She  did  not  even  know  that  she  was  a  widow,  that  her 
husband  had  died  on  a  roof  in  Orchard  Street !  It  seemed 
impossible  that  Mrs.  Merithew  should  be  here  laughing 
and  brightly  dressed  if  her  husband  were  actually  dead. 

522 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Muriel  felt  for  a  moment  that  the  whole  thing  was  a  mere 
delirittm. 

Mrs.  Merithew  called  the  meeting  to  order,  explained 
triimiphantly  that  she  had  seen  the  necessary  city  officials, 
and  had  won  from  them  an  order  closing  the  selected 
streets  dtiring  the  afternoon  hours.  It  was  a  glorious  vic- 
tory, one  of  the  tenderest  acts  of  the  great-hearted  dty. 
A  vote  of  thanks  to  Miss  Schuyler  for  suggesting  the 
idea  was  moved  and  carried.  Several  women  called 
"Speech!  speech!"  but  Muriel  shook  her  head  and  smiled 
in  a  bewildered  way. 

Muriel  recalled  that  day,  a  year  or  so  ago,  when  she 
had  come  to  town  and  motored  through  a  street  crowded 
with  children  who  had  no  other  place  to  play,  and  her 
father's  car  had  struck  one  of  them  down — the  crippled 
Happy  Hanigan.  The  chauffeur  had  looked  at  her,  and 
had  asked  if  he  should  run  away;  but  she  had  forbidden 
the  escape,  had  faced  the  mob  and  been  wounded  by  it,  had  • 
quelled  it  and  taken  the  victim  of  the  accident  imder  her 
own  protection. 

If  she  had  never  carried  him  home,  she  would  never 
have  met  the  Angelillo  people  or  known  of  their  kidnapped 
boy.  Then  she  woiild  never  have  gone  to  her  father's 
office  to  beg  for  his  ransom  money;  she  would  not  have 
met  Perry  Merithew  then,  or  perhaps  ever.  She  would 
not  have  begim  that  chain  of  meetings  that  ended  in  his 
death. 

If  she  had  done  the  cowardly  thing,  or  the  indifferent 
thing,  she  would  now  be  innocent,  at  peace  and  un- 
afraid. 

What  was  the  moral  of  it  all  ?    She  had  done  good,  and , 
evil  had  come  of  it!    If  she  had  done  evil,  good  would 
have  come  of  it ! 

The  women  were  talking,  many  of  them  at  once.  The 
success  of  their  endeavor  made  them  garrulous.  Muriel 
wanted  to  get  away.  She  covild  hardly  walk  out  in  the 
midst  of  some  one's  speech.     Some  one  was  always  talk- 

523 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

ing.  There  were  no  interstices.  The  next  speaker  was 
always  under  way  before  the  last  one  had  finished. 

Muriel  began  to  fear  again  that  she  was  going  to  go 
mad  and  shout  the  truth.  She  determined  to  slip  out. 
But  Mrs.  Merithew  motioned  to  her,  and  whispered: 

"I  want  to  see  you — after." 

When  at  last  the  meeting  adjourned  Mrs.  Merithew 
took  Muriel  by  the  arm,  clung  to  her  in  the  elevator, 
would  not  let  her  go  home  in  the  taxicab  she  had  held. 
They  had  a  silly  combat  on  the  walk  till  Muriel,  for  peace' 
sake,  paid  her  driver  and  dismissed  him  and  got  into  the 
Merithew  car. 

And  then  a  queer  man  with  only  one  eyebrow  and 
a  half  pushed  forward  and  asked  Mrs.  Merithew  if  she 
knew  where  her  husband  was  to  be  foimd?  And  Mrs. 
Merithew  turned  to  Muriel  and  made  a  joke  of  it,  mur- 
muring: 

"A  funny  question  to  ask  me!" 

Muriel  could  have  told  the  man  where  Perry  Merithew 
was,  and  the  struggle  to  keep  from  teUing  him  was  like 
a  death-wrestle.  The  car  moved  away  just  in  time  to 
keep  her  from  shrieking  at  him  what  she  knew. 

And  then  a  horde  of  newsboys  charged  on  the  car, 
brandishing  extras.  Mrs.  Merithew  would  not  look  at 
them.  She  was  chattering  about  the  forthcoming  Amert- 
ca's  Cup  races.and  supposing  that  Muriel  would  see  them, 
of  course,  from  Winnie  Nicolls's  yacht. 

Muriel  caught  a  glimpse  of  red  head-lines: 

MERITHEW  MURDERED 

Already  her  deed  was  history.  How  long  would  it  re- 
v^ain  anonymous?  But  at  least  the  truth  was  out !  That 
was  good!  She  could  breathe.  The  suffocation  of  the 
secret  was  gone  from  her  Itmgs.  She  plucked  Mrs.  Meri- 
thew's  sleeve  to  call  her  attention  to  the  bulletin.  But 
Mrs.  Merithew  paid  no  heed,  and  Muriel  was  glad. 

524 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

They  rode  on.  Mtiriel  wanted  to  get  home  at  once 
and  hide,  for  the  whole  town  was  alive  to  the  news.  She 
saw  the  extras  everywhere. 

But  Mrs.  Merithew  laughingly  compelled  her  to  go 
along  with  her.  She  had  some  new  hats  to  show  her. 
She  would  not  be  denied.  She  would  not  direct  the  chauf- 
feur to  the  Schuyler  house.  She  haled  Muriel  along, 
prisoner. 

They  reached  the  Merithew  place,  and  Mrs.  Merithew 
paused,  laughing,  on  the  steps,  for  the  door  to  be  opened. 
An  old  woman,  the  housekeeper,  astounded  Mrs.  Meri- 
thew by  rushing  out  and  taking  her  in  her  fat  arms  and 
sobbing: 

"Oh,  my  poor  child!  my  poor  child!" 

Mrs.  Merithew  turned  to  Muriel  and  laughed.  Would 
she  never  stop  laughing! 

"What's  all  this ?"  she  chuckled.  "Who's  been  bother- 
ing you  now,  Mrs.  Keating?" 

The  housekeeper  led  her  into  the  drawing-room  and 
seated  her  on  a  divan  and  sat  down  by  her,  to  Mrs. 
Merithew's  surprise  and  indignation. 

"There's  terrible  news  for  you,  dearie,"  Mrs.  Keating 
said.  "Be  as  brave  as  you  can,  won't  you,  dearie?  You 
will  be  brave,  won't  you?  These  things  come  to  all  of 
us.     It's  a  bitter  world." 

Mrs.  Merithew  leaped  to  her  feet  and  screamed:  "My 
boy!  He's  hiu-t!  He's — wha —  What's  happened  to  my 
boy?" 

"No,  it's  not  the  boy,  dearie;  it's — ^it's  Mr. — Mr. 
Merithew." 

Mrs.  Merithew  sank  down  again,  almost  reassured. 
And  then  she  learned  the  news  as  Mrs.  Keating  sobbed  it : 

"Your  husband,  dearie — ^he's  not  well — he's  had  an 
accident — he's  kind  of  sick — he's — " 

"He's  dead!"  Mrs.  Merithew  whispered,  and  toppled 
over  on  the  old  woman's  shoulder. 

525 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

It  would  have  been  unmerciful  to  bring  her  back  to 
consciousness.  They  let  her  alone  till  her  weary  sotd 
struggled  back  into  her  body.  And  then  the  hell  began. 
In  spite  of  Muriel's  effort  to  quiet  her,  she  demanded  the 
truth.  She  took  it  as  hard  as  could  be.  Instantly  Perry 
Merithew — ^the  heartless  neglecter  of  her  alone  among 
women,  the  squanderer  whose  life  had  been  another  rake's 
progress — ^became  the  young,  devoted  bridegroom,  the 
pure  lover,  the  faithful  husband. 

One  of  the  maids  came  running  in  with  an  extra  that 
had  just  reached  thus  far  north.  Mrs.  Merithew  read 
Hallard's  story  of  the  mysterious  copper-haired  woman. 
She  broke  from  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Keating  and  flung  off 
even  Muriel's  strong  arms.  She  ran  amuck  in  her  grief. 
Muriel  called  out  to  the  gaping  servants: 

"Get  the  doctor  at  once!" 

The  servants  were  too  panic-stricken  with  the  news 
and  with  its  effect  on  Mrs.  Merithew  to  have  any  wits. 
They  stood  about  like  a  mob  of  frightened,  staring  chil- 
dren. 

Muriel  could  think  of  no  doctor's  name  but  one.  She 
ran  to  the  telephone  and  called  for  Clinton  Worthing, 
begged  him  in  Heaven's  name  to  come  quick.  He  came 
in  the  little  car  he  had  bought  when  he  thought  he  shoiild 
have  a  lot  of  patients. 

Worthing  had  been  reading  the  Gazette's  Merithew 
extra  when  Muriel  called  him.  He  guessed  what  his  task 
would  be. 

He  tried  to  calm  Mrs.  Merithew  with  words,  but  she 
pimimeled  him  with  her  hands  and  gabbled: 

"My  husband  is  dead.  He  has  been  murdered.  He 
was  the  best  man  that  ever  lived.  Some  woman  killed 
him.  And  I'll  kill  her.  I  will!  I'll  kill  her!  As  soon 
as  I  find  her,  I'll  kill  her!" 

Young  Worthing  told  her  that  she  was  quite  right  to 
plan  such  a  thing,  but  she  must  get  her  strength  first. 
He  could  not  drug  her  with  words.     He  made  ready  a 

526 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

solution,  and  while  she  pounded  him  with  one  hand,  he 
held  the  other  arm  and  thrust  a  needle  into  her  flesh  and 
pressed  a  Httle  piston-rod  and  drove  nepenthe  into  her 
sotil.  And  by  and  by  she  grew  placid  because  a  chemical 
was  in  her  veins.  The  consolations  and  submissions  that 
self-control  and  advice  and  philosophy  could  not  give  her 
now  she  got  in  Hquid  essence. 

When  Mrs.  Merithew  was  subdued,  Worthing  turned 
to  Muriel  and  said,  "You  look  pretty  bad  yourself." 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  answered  in  a  husky  tone.  There 
was  a  grimace  on  her  drawn  face.  It  was  meant  for  a 
smile. 

Worthing  answered  it  with  a  scowl,  "You're  positive- 
ly green.  I'm  going  to  take  you  home  before  you  keel 
over.     My  car's  outside." 

There  was  a  kind  of  glory  in  ordering  her  about  and 
in  taking  her  in  his  car — a  poor  thing,  but  his  own.  He 
drove  to  the  Schuyler  house,  rang  the  bell  with  authority, 
and,  entering,  took  command  of  the  palace. 

He  said  to  the  maid,  "Undress  her  and  get  her  to  bed." 

He  did  not  leave  the  room.  He  was  a  doctor  on  duty. 
He  busied  himself  with  preparations  and  instructions. 

"Take  off  her  shoes  first,"  he  commanded,  "and  loosen 
her  corsets.  Get  her  to  bed.  Fill  the  ice-cap  now  and 
the  hot-water  bottle." 

Muriel  accepted  all  the  maid's  services  till  the  girl  put 
her  hands  on  Muriel's  head,  saying: 

"I'd  better  take  down  your  hair," 

Muriel  let  out  a  cry,  struck  her  hand  away,  and  re- 
coiled out  of  her  reach.  The  maid  stared  in  wonderment, 
and  Worthing  reeled  before  a  terrific  thought  that  smote 
him  like  a  random  bullet. 

But  it  glanced  from  the  hard  surface  of  his  reason,  and 
left  him  rather  ashamed  than  siispicious. 


CHAPTER  LXIII 

MURIEL  was  trying  to  excuse  herself.  She  v/as  laugh- 
ing uncannily,  and  apologizing  to  the  maid:  "I'm 
sorry,  my  dear.  I  didn't  mean  to  strike  you.  But  I 
can't  bear  to  have  my  head  jarred  this  morning.  It  aches 
so!" 

She  ran  out  to  her  dressing-room.  When  she  came 
back  she  wore  a  quaintly  fetching  new-old-fashioned 
boudoir  cap.     She  was  smiHng  with  vigor. 

She  marched  toward  the  bed,  but  collapsed  before  she 
got  there.  She  found  herself  in  Worthing's  arms.  It  was 
wonderfiil  to  have  him  save  her  from  a  timible.  He 
thought  she  was  very  beautiful.  And  he  thanked  God 
that  he  knew  what  was  known  about  taking  care  of  peo- 
ple in  distress. 

She  apologized  for  her  behavior  and  whispered:  "That 
poor  maid  gets  on  my  nerves.     I  can't  stand  her  touch." 

"I'll  get  rid  of  her,"  said  Worthing,  "and  send  you  a 
trained  nurse." 

"But  I  don't  want  a  trained  nurse!" 

"That  makes  no  difference;  you  get  one,  all  the  same." 

It  seemed  to  give  Muriel  as  much  comfort  to  be  coerced 
as  it  did  him  to  coerce.  He  left  her  and  went  back  to  his 
car.  He  telephoned  to  a  club  of  trained  nurses  and  ar- 
ranged for  one  of  them  to  report  at  Muriel's  home.  He 
reported  there  himself  within  an  hour.  The  nurse  had 
come  and  gone  already. 

Muriel's  only  excuse  was,  "I  didn't  like  her." 

"What  type  of  nurse  do  you  like?"  said  Worthing. 

528 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"  I  don't  want  anybody.  I  won't  have  anybody.  I'm 
not  ill." 

He  would  have  been  glad  to  have  her  very  ill,  and  to 
save  her  from  exquisite  compHcations  by  unheard-of  skill 
and  devotion.  He  was  a  doctor  before  he  became  a 
lover.  Besides,  the  lover  of  him  told  the  doctor  of  him 
that  if  the  latter  could  save  her  from  death  the  former 
might  have  a  chance  at  her  life. 

He  was  disappointed  a  little  when  Muriel  refused  to 
surrender.  He  could  not  imagine  how  tempted,  how 
ferociously  tempted  she  was  to  make  him  indeed  the 
physician  of  her  soul.  But  she  let  him  go,  though  she 
lu-ged  him  to  come  back  soon. 

Then  her  loneliness  was  overpowering.  Her  father 
and  her  mother  would  fight  for  her,  but  they  must  not 
know. 

She  wanted  to  leave  town,  but  she  dared  not.  She  sat 
in  her  window  and  watched  the  Avenue.  The  people  who 
went  by  staring  seemed  to  be  looking  for  her.  Those  who 
did  not  look  or  who  glanced  idly  were  disguising  their 
interest.  The  patrolman  satmtering  past  was  a  jail 
guard.  The  loafer  on  the  Park  wall  was  a  detective. 
The  servants  were  spies  on  the  pay-roll  of  the  secret 
police. 

She  was  sure  that  she  saw  in  the  servants'  eyes  a 
wolfish  glint  of  pursuit.  She  kept  them  away  as  much 
as  possible.  She  pretended  to  want  to  sleep,  and  locked 
them  out,  but  she  lay  awake,  planning  and  conspiring  with 
all  her  might  to  defraud  justice  or  at  least  the  police  part 
of  justice;  for  in  her  mind  nothing  could  be  more  unjust 
than  her  present  pHght  or  the  penalties  that  might  be 
inflicted  on  her. 

She  could  not  easily  dispose  of  her  hair.  She  took 
it  down  again  and  again  and  studied  it.  If  Merithew's 
fingers  had  closed  upon  it  higher  on  her  head,  she  could 
never  have  concealed  the  eight  marks  of  severance.  But 
she  had  worn  it  in  two  coils  and  he  had  seized  it  there. 

529 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

The  fashion  in  coiffures  that  autumn  was  the  high 
"  French  twist "  with  all  the  ends  tucked  in  under. 

Muriel  had  been  planning  to  have  her  hair  dressed  so, 
but  she  had  not  got  roiind  to  it.  She  thanked  Heaven 
for  that  deferment,  else  all  of  Perry  Merithew's  fingers 
would  have  clasped  her  hair  almost  at  the  roots,  and  the 
slashes  would  have  announced  her  guilt  hideously. 

She  thanked  Heaven  again  for  the  style  that  was  now 
at  her  disposal.  Now  she  could  fold  the  ragged  ends 
beneath  a  swirl  of  hair,  and  she  would  be  like  nearly 
everybody  else.  So  she  joined  the  great  majority  and 
did  up  her  hair  in  the  French  twist.  Yet  if  her  maid 
should  try  to  brush  and  comb  it  as  usual  she  would  notice 
the  butchery  at  once.  If  a  detective  should  insist  on 
examining  her  hair  and  matching  it  with  the  locks  in 
Perry's  hands  there  would  be  no  escape  for  her. 

She  began  to  feel  that  there  was  no  escape  for  her, 
anyway.  She  was  afraid  to  leave  town,  afraid  to  leave 
the  house,  afraid  to  stay  in  it,  afraid  of  everything, 
everybody. 

The  need  of  some  one  to  confide  in  grew  imperious, 
and  she  felt  a  loneHness  for  her  father  and  mother. 

They  had  always  protected  her  from  every  evil,  and 
reasoned  away  every  bogie.  She  was  tempted  to  go  out 
to  the  country  place  at  once,  but  she  was  afraid  to  start 
to  run,  lest  her  wits  should  be  stampeded  and  lest  people 
might  wonder  why  she  had  vanished. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  her  father  telephoned  that  he 
was  in  town  with  her  mother,  who  had  some  shopping  to 
do.  They  were  going  back  on  the  yacht  at  six.  She  must 
meet  them  at  the  landing-slip.  Muriel  demiirred  a  little, 
but  her  father  stormed,  and  it  was  good  to  be  commanded. 

In  the  cool  of  the  afternoon  she  rode  down  Fifth  Avenue 
through  the  home-going  flood  tide  of  people.  Everybody 
was  reading  an  evening  paper.  The  crowded  tops  of  the 
stages  fluttered  with  joiimals.  Even  the  occupants  of 
stately  motors  who  did  not  think  it  looked  correct  to  read 

530 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

as  they  rode  could  not  postpone  their  greedy  interest  in 

the  Merithew  affair. 

Muriel  was  tormented  with  curiosity  to  read  what  was 
said.  For  all  she  knew,  her  name  was  in  the  head-lines. 
When  the  car  was  checked  for  a  time  by  the  cross-current 
of  traffic  at  Forty-second  Street  she  had  the  chauffeur 
buy  her  several  papers  from  a  newsboy. 

On  one  of  them  Merithew's  name  was  in  red;  she  feared 
that  the  dreadful  ink  would  incarnadine  her  fingers,  and 
she  put  it  aside  for  a  more  sober  paper. 

It  was  a  strange  experience  to  be  the  only  one  who 
knew  what  all  these  millions  were  trying  to  learn;  what 
all  these  reporters  were  guessing  at.  The  minor  head- 
lines told  her  that  the  poHce  were  baffled,  and  this  gave 
her  some  comfort. 

But  when  she  read  that  a  certain  Aphra  Shaler  was  sus- 
pected and  had  taken  flight,  and  that  "Red  Ida"  Ganley, 
who  had  been  seen  dancing  with  Perry  Merithew,  was 
being  sought  by  the  police,  she  foimd  a  new  problem  before 
hCT.  The  question  was  no  longer  one  of  saving  merely 
herself;  she  must  save  other  women,  innocent  women, 
whom  her  act  had  dragged  from  obscurity  into  a  grue- 
some notoriety,  perhaps  into  a  hazard  of  life. 

She  had  not  meant  to  harm  Perry  Merithew,  and  she 
had  a  right  to  evade  the  awful  results  of  the  accident. 
But  had  she  the  right  to  let  them  fall  on  somebody  else? 
If  only  she  could  quit  thinking  long  enough  to  rest,  so 
that  she  might  think  right! 

The  crowded  Avenue  was  a  gantlet  of  terrors  for  her, 
and  again  that  mutiny  grew  within  herself,  that  rebel 
faction  demanding  that  she  rise  and  cry  out  to  the  multi- 
tude, as  she  had  seen  suffragettes  stand  up  in  their  motor- 
cars and  harangue  the  throngs.  Only  Muriel's  oration 
wotild  be: 

"Here  I  am!  Look  no  farther!  Quit  accusing  inno- 
cent women.  I  am  the  gtdlty  one.  I  killed  Perry  Meri- 
thew!" 

531 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

But  of  course  she  did  no  such  thing.  She  sat  and 
read  her  paper,  and  the  people  she  passed,  if  they  noticed 
her  at  all,  thought  how  pretty  and  peaceable  she  was. 
And  many  a  woman  wished  that  she  might  change  places 
with  her. 

When  some  of  the  traffic  poUcemen  who  knew  Muriel 
saluted  her  and  srmled,  she  snuled  back,  though  she 
called  herself  a  loathsome  hypocrite.  She  could  hardly 
crush  down  the  impulse  to  thrust  out  her  wrists  and  cry: 

"Put  your  handcuffs  on  me!  I  have  no  right  in  this 
landaulet.     I  belong  in  the  patrol-wagon." 

But  another  faction  in  her  soul,  the  conservative  Tory 
faction,  murmtued  that  nothing  would  be  gained  by  her 
degradation.  Those  women  who  had  been  accused  had 
already  been  accused,  and  they  would  suffer  no  further 
harm,  since  they  could  easily  prove  their  innocence.  If 
she  spoke,  however,  there  would  be  no  escape  for  her 
innocent  father  and  mother  from  lifelong  misery.  Of 
cotuse,  if  worst  came  to  worst,  and  some  woman  were 
actually  convicted,  Miuiel  could — ^and  of  course  would — 
save  her  from  punishment  by  a  confession.  But  tmtil 
that  time  she  resolved  to  keep  her  secret. 

And  so  she  went  safely  and  calmly  through  the  streets. 
Everybody  was  looking  for  her  and  at  her,  and  nobody 
saw  her.     Her  guilt  wore  the  invisible  cloak. 

She  foimd  her  father  and  mother  on  the  shade-deck 
of  the  yacht,  trying  to  read  the  breeze-whipped  papers. 
When  Jacob  rose  to  welcome  her,  a  number  of  extras 
that  he  had  been  sitting  on  went  whirling  out  on  the  wind 
among  the  wide-winged  sea-gulls  teetering  and  coasting 
everywhere. 

Jacob  kept  an  extra  in  his  hand  while  he  embraced  his 
daughter,  and  Susan  enveloped  her  hardly  more  in  her 
arms  than  in  her  newspaper.  And  the  first  words  they 
said  were  in  unison: 

"Did  you  hear  about  poor  Perry  Merithew?" 

Muriel  nodded  distressfully,  and  Susan  exclaimed: 

532 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"But  poor  Mrs.  Merithew!    How  horrible  for  her!" 

"I  was  with  her  when  she  got  the  news,"  said 
Muriel. 

"Oh,  my  dear!  You  poor  child!  How  terrible!  How 
did  she  take  it?  Did  she  know  any  more  about  it  than 
the  papers  do?" 

Muriel  shook  her  head  and  spoke  with  a  trifle  of  im- 
patience. "If  you  please,  I'd  rather  not  talk  about  it. 
I've  had  about  all  I  can  stand." 

Jacob  and  Susan  were  gushing  with  sympathy,  and 
motioned  to  each  other  to  drop  the  subject;  but  it  kept 
coming  up.  They  could  not  keep  their  eyes  off  their 
papers,  and  at  length  they  btuied  themselves  in  the  news. 
The  yacht  backed  out  and  pushed  up  the  river,  and 
by  and  by  Muriel  took  a  paper  to  read. 

On  the  other  yachts  departing  from  the  slip,  and  on 
the  tugboats  chugging  by;  on  the  ferries  waddling  to 
Brooklyn  and  back,  and  on  the  big  passenger-boats  bound 
for  the  coast  towns  of  New  England,  everybody  was  head- 
ing the  columns  on  colimins  the  newspapers  devoted  to 
stating  that  they  did  not  know  who  killed  Perry  Merithew. 
No  one  read  their  ignorant  proHxities  with  so  much  eager- 
ness as  the  one  young  woman  who  knew. 

It  was  comfortable  to  be  going  home  with  her  own  kin, 
and  it  was  encouraging  to  see  the  vast  and  perilous  city 
shrinking  back  into  the  distance.  Muriel  was  tempted 
anew  to  tell  her  father  and  mother.  But  she  felt  that  she 
owed  them  a  great  duty.  They  had  sheltered  her  as  best 
they  could  from  the  cruelties  of  life;  she  must  shelter 
them  now.  She  had  no  right  to  blast  their  years.  The 
pubHc  had  no  right  to  demand  them  as  sheep  slaugh- 
tered on  the  altar  of  curiosity. 

But  she  could  not  let  them  know  what  she  was  doing 
for  them.  They  never  dreamed  how  she  was  repa^dng 
her  debts  now,  how  they  tried  her  self-control  vrith  their 
fatuous  comments. 

"Something  like  this  has  been  coming  to  Perry  for 

533 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

a  long  while,"  said  Jacob.  "He  was  a  wrong  un  from  the 
start." 

And  Susan,  looking  over  her  spectacles  and  her  paper, 
moralized:  "It  all  comes  from  being  promiscuous.  I  al- 
ways said  that  the  slums  were  dangerous.  Perhaps  you'll 
believe  me  now,  Muriel.  I  hope  this  will  be  a  lesson  to 
you." 

"Yes,  mother,"  said  Muriel. 


CHAPTER  LXIV 

WHILE  the  Schuylers  were  studying  the  extras  on 
their  yacht  the  rest  of  the  populace  was  doing  like- 
wise. Swaying  strap-hangers  on  the  street-cars,  subways, 
and  elevated  roads  hid  with  their  papers  the  papers  of 
those  who  had  seats.  Commuters  on  the  suburban  trains 
neglected  their  card  games  in  the  smoking-cars;  btmdle- 
burdened  women  in  the  day-coaches  were  interested  for 
once  in  the  front  page.  In  almost  every  pair  of  hands 
was  an  evening  paper.  You  could  make  a  fair  guess  at  a 
man's  character  from  the  choice  of  his  paper,  except  that 
some  carried  several — which  may  have  been  a  further  test 
of  character.  Those  who  read  several  papers  knew  less 
than  those  who  read  one,  for  by  the  late  afternoon  each 
of  the  journals  had  covered  the  story  with  its  own  blanket, 
and  no  two  agreed. 

In  one  paper  certain  statements  were  given  as  facts, 
and  in  another  their  very  opposite.  Alleged  interviews 
with  police  chiefs  announced  in  one  paper  exactly  what 
another  alleged  interview  contradicted  with  flatness. 
One  paper  gave  the  exact  words  of  Mrs.  Merithew,  another 
printed  exact  words  of  amazingly  different  nature;  a  third 
told  the  truth,  that  she  had  refused  to  see  anybody  at  all. 

One  paper  quoted  just  what  a  certain  well-known 
surgeon  had  said;  a  second  quoted  him  in  complete  con- 
tradiction ;  a  third  quoted  him  as  refusing  to  say  anything; 
and  the  fact  was  that  he  was  not  in  town. 

All  over  the  United  States  the  evening  papers  were 
full  of  Perry  Merithew.  He  had  become  an  international 
figure. 

535 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

And  yet  next  to  nothing  was  known  of  his  death  except 
that  he  had  been  found  dead  and  that  he  clenched  in  his 
hands  a  few  tiifts  of  hair,  which  were  assumed  to  be  a 
woman's;  the  very  color  of  the  hair  was  variously  pro- 
claimed as  red,  yellow,  golden,  auburn,  Titian,  bronze, 
copper. 

There  would  have  been  interest  enough  at  any  time 
in  the  solemn  passing  of  such  a  comedian.  There  could 
not  have  been  more  if  some  of  the  men  whose  homes  he  had 
marred  had  murdered  him  with  revolver,  or  knife,  or  a 
water-bottle,  or  with  a  poison,  or  a  bomb  sent  through  the 
mail. 

People  found  it  almost  unbearable  to  be  teased  with 
such  a  cluster  of  riddles.  Who  was  the  woman  with  him  ? 
What  took  them  to  so  strange  a  place  ?  Did  she  kill  him  ? 
How  came  her  hair  in  his  dead  hands?  How  did  she 
escape  from  his  horrible  clutch?  And  again  who  was 
she? 

Instantly  every  woman  whose  hair  could  by  any 
means  be  said  to  have  a  copper  hue  had  become  suspect. 
On  the  street-cars  and  in  the  shops  such  women  found 
themselves  the  target  of  glances;  they  heard  whispers 
hissing  about  them;  they  thanked  Heaven  for  alibis,  or, 
in  some  cases,  wished  their  aHbis  were  more  pleasant  to 
explain. 

As  at  the  trump  of  Gabriel,  so  now  graves  opened 
and  dead  scandals  rose  up,  closet  doors  swung  ajar  and 
hidden  skeletons  fell  out,  rattling.  Things  muttered 
behind  the  hand  hitherto  were  printed  in  head-lines  now 
without  fear  of  prosecution  under  the  contemptible  libel 
laws  of  New  York. 

Perry  Merithew  had  known  many  women  of  copper- 
colored  hair,  and  he  had  known  many  women  whom  no 
one  knew  he  knew,  for  he  loved  the  whole  sex,  and  his 
tastes  were  eclectic. 

Many  quarrels  were  started  in  homes  of  all  degrees 
because  daughters  or  wives  of  auburn  hair  had  smiled 

536 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

on  Merry  Perry.  Many  people  were  forced  to  explain 
their  whereabouts  who  had  never  been  quevStioned  before. 
Letters  and  souvenirs  of  his  were  burned  and  not  a  few 
bright  eyes  were  wet  to  think  how  well  he  had  earned  his 
sobriquet  of  "Merry  Perry,"  how  unfalteringly  he  had 
smiled  on  life  and  codes,  not  with  malice,  but  with  mis- 
chief. 

Now  his  name  and  fame  stank  like  the  skull  of  poor 
Yorick.  There  was  contagion  in  his  acquaintance.  Friends 
of  his  who  had  vied  with  him  in  his  hilarities  and  had 
boasted  of  knowing  him  well  denied  that  they  had  known 
him  at  all.  Men  of  wild  life  reformed  temporarily,  shud- 
dering at  the  risks  they  had  run.  One  or  two  profligate 
beaux  left  town  in  a  hurry  to  escape  the  merciless  in- 
quisition and  speculation  of  press  and  police. 

A  complex  series  of  results  followed  upon  Merithew's 
demise  like  ripples  thrown  out  by  a  pebble  tossed  into 
a  pond.  Festivities  were  abandoned.  A  solemnity  in- 
vaded circles  of  revelry.  Lives  were  ransacked  and  hints 
were  cast  about  with  all  the  imcurbed  recklessness  of  the 
various  papers  rivaling  one  another  like  chefs  in  a  contest 
of  spices. 

His  death  affected  nimiberless  people  in  unexpected 
ways.  The  tenement,  which  even  the  building-inspectors 
and  the  Board  of  Health  had  neglected,  now  became  a 
famous  landmark.  Crowds  gathered  to  stare  at  it  and 
to  recognize  how  sinister  it  was.  The  detectives  ran- 
sacking the  building  for  clues  turned  up  several  mouse- 
nests,  including  a  counterfeiter's  establishment,  the  hid- 
ing-place of  two  far-htmted  and  much-advertised  yeggmen 
and  their  girls,  a  pair  of  starving  and  highly  sophisticated 
children  whose  parents  had  been  sent  up  for  drunkenness 
— and  other  picturesque  people. 

But  among  all  the  ciuious  matters  brought  to  light 
the  one  thing  not  brought  to  light  was  the  name  of  the 
woman  whose  hair  Merithew  retained  in  his  clutch. 

Muriel  herself  was  tormented  with  flashes  of  impulse 
537 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

to  stand  forth  and  settle  the  mystery.  But  there  were 
others  to  consider  besides  herself.  She  had  no  right  to 
blacken  the  family  escutcheon  just  because  Perry  Meri- 
thew  was  a  scoundrel.     She  grew  very  bitter  against  him. 

Once  she  had  occasion  to  look  in  her  handbag,  which 
had  been  l)dng  about  unheeded. 

She  povired  the  contents  on  the  bed.  Out  roUed 
Perry  Merithew's  ring,  and  his  pearl,  his  watch,  and 
his  money. 

Muriel  fell  back  from  them  with  a  little  cry,  as  if  she 
had  emptied  a  nest  of  Httle  rattlesnakes.  And  indeed 
these  relics  were  almost  as  dangerous.  Yet  somehow 
they  seemed  to  plead  for  him.  The  poor  fellow  had  given 
them  to  her  with  a  lavish  generosity.  He  had  not  been 
altogether  bad.  Yet  everybody  was  talking  of  his  vices, 
and  nobody  was  defending  him.  The  papers  were  full  of 
his  extravagances  and  escapades,  his  love-affairs  and  fop- 
peries, his  cynical  repartees,  his  brilliant  representation 
of  the  worst  activities  of  the  idle  rich.  Not  a  word  was 
printed  in  his  behalf,  not  a  w6rd  of  excuse  or  forgiveness 
or  luiderstanding. 

Muriel  felt  that  she  ought  at  least  to  tell  what  she 
knew  of  his  good  deeds.  If  a  man's  transgressions  were 
so  important  as  to  require  all  the  space  he  was  receiving, 
his  good  deeds  stirely  deserved  mention  at  least. 

This  thought,  even  more  than  the  fierce  centrifugal 
force  of  a  secret,  began  to  fight  against  her  instinct  of  self- 
protection.  A  certain  faction  in  the  congress  of  her  soul 
demanded  that  she  should  not  deny  the  man  his  nil  nisi 
bonum,  the  one  great  luxury  of  the  newly  dead.  Poor 
Perry !  Everybody  was  saying  nothing  but  ill  of  him.  Yet 
there  was  one  person  who  could  say:  "He  went  to  the 
roof  because  of  his  generosity  and  his  gallantry.  He  was 
not  robbed  of  his  jewels  and  his  money.  He  gave  them 
to  the  poor." 

It  was  hideously  imfair  that  these  things  should  not 

538 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

be  published.     The  ring  and  the  pearl  and  the  coins  seemed 
to  demand  it. 

But  the  moment  Muriel  resolved  to  speak,  she  imag- 
ined the  result  of  such  a  declaration.  People  would  im- 
mediately exclaim:  "So  Muriel  Schuyler  defends  him. 
She  is  the  only  one  who  does.  Why?  She  must  have 
been  very  intimate  with  him.  She'd  better  be  investi- 
gated, too.  Since  she  knows  so  much,  she  must  know 
more." 

This  drove  Muriel  away  from  the  plan.  And  so  she 
rearrived  by  another  circumlocution  at  her  old  resting- 
place,  that  she  must  not  speak.  Also  she  realized  the 
danger  of  these  trinkets.  The  papers  said  that  the  police 
were  searching  the  pawnshops  for  them.  What  if  they 
searched  her  house?  What  would  be  said  if  they  were 
found  in  her  possession?  They  would  be  docimients  for 
her  conviction. 

But  where  could  she  hide  them?  She  looked  here  and 
there — ^in  this  drawer,  in  that  closet,  inside  the  fireplace, 
imder  the  rugs.  No  place  was  safe.  Every  nook  and 
cranny  was  sure  to  be  ransacked  by  the  enemies  of  dust, 
the  house-cleaning  brigade. 

She  stood  transferring  the  things  from  one  pakn  to  the 
other,  as  if  her  hands  refused  them.  She  felt  sorry  for 
other  poor  murderers  who  did  not  know  what  to  do. 

Suppose  she  destroyed  the  things.  It  would  be  strange- 
ly difficult  to  get  rid  of  a  watch  and  a  diamond  and  a 
pearl.  And  then,  some  day,  she  might  be  vitally  eager 
to  produce  them  in  support  of  her  story.  If  they  were 
done  away  with,  that  hateful  nagging  Why  ?  would  come 
up  again. 

She  wished  that  she  might  send  them  to  Mrs.  Meri- 
thew  anonymously.  But  it  is  very  hard  to  be  anonymous. 
Handwriting  is  hard  to  disguise.  It  is  hard  to  drop  a 
letter  in  a  mail-box  without  leaving  some  clue.  Mes- 
senger-boys are  perilous.  She  could  not  leave  the  parcel 
at  Mrs.  Merithew's  door  and  get  away  without  risk. 

539 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

It  was  maddeningly  diffioilt  to  lose  things  on  purpose. 
The  vast  invisible  spy-system  of  circimistances  regarded 
her  with  ironic  amusement. 

She  opened  a  sachet-bag  and  stujfTed  them  there,  and 
sewed  them  in.  But  the  bag  seemed  suspiciously  heavy. 
The  first  maid  that  lifted  it  would  heft  more  than  per- 
fumed fltiff.  Muriel  opened  the  seam  and  took  them 
out  and  sewed  it  up  again.  She  opened  a  pincushion  and 
cached  them  there,  and  the  first  pin  she  jabbed  in  for  a 
test  struck  the  face  of  the  watch.  She  took  them  out 
again.  She  studied  the  mattress,  but  she  did  not  believe 
that  she  could  repair  a  rip  with  perfect  imitation. 

She  was  afraid  to  have  the  things  on  her  person,  and 
afraid  to  have  them  out  of  her  reach.  She  paced  the 
room  faster  and  faster.  The  stupid  objects  were  driving 
her  out  of  her  mind.  They  stared  at  her  with  the  evil 
eye. 

She  went  to  the  series  of  wardrobes  in  which  the  great 
store  of  her  equipment  was  kept.  She  dared  not  hide  the 
things  in  any  of  the  crannies  or  attach  them  to  any  of 
the  properties. 

At  length,  in  a  drawer  filled  with  an  exquisite  rubbish 
of  ribbons  and  velvet  patches,  broken  ornaments  and 
souvenirs,  she  found  two  or  three  old  dolls  that  she  had 
kept  by  her  since  she  had  outgrown  them. 

One  was  a  tall  and  haughty  snob  of  wax;  another  an 
exquisite  porcelain  fairy,  and  a  third  a  burly  cloth  puppet 
of  distinctly  plebeian  appearance — a  kind  of  servant  doll. 
There  was  a  gash  in  its  integument  whence  the  stuffing 
exuded.  This  had  once  been  her  faithful,  unfaiHng  friend, 
the  confidante  of  her  most  important  secrets.  "Suki," 
she  called  it. 

She  thrust  the  watch  and  the  pearl  and  the  ring  in 
among  the  rags,  sewed  up  the  woimd,  and  felt  enormously 
reassiired. 

In  a  rapture  of  relief  she  hugged  the  doll  hard  and 
whispered  to  it,  childishly:   "Suki,  you  never  told  on 

540 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

me  before.     Remember  I'm  trusting  you  now  with  my 
life." 

She  put  Suki  back  among  the  memories  and  marveled 
at  what  time  had  wrought  in  her  since  she  first  began  to 
lug  that  doll  about  the  world.  Then  she  shoved  the 
drawer  shut  and  resimied  the  business  of  thwarting  her 
destiny. 


CHAPTER  LXV 

WHEN  the  total  number  of  persons  convicted  of 
murder  every  year  is  subtracted  from  the  total 
number  of  persons  murdered  every  year  the  remainder 
is  appalling.  The  Merithew  affair  was  drifting  into  the 
remainder. 

The  police  themselves  were  not  more  determined  to 
solve  the  problem  than  the  Gazette  reporter,  Hallard. 
He  felt  that  this  was  his  own  private  crime.  He  had 
written  the  first  extra  and  in  a  sense  copyrighted  Meri- 
thew's  taking  off.  He  was  determined  to  write  the  last 
extra. 

The  Merithew  case  became  his  obsession.  He  never 
went  an5rwhere  that  he  did  not  keep  one  eye  open  for  a 
possible  agent. 

His  first  effort  was  to  trace  the  owner  of  the  hat-pin  he 
had  found  on  the  roof.  He  took  it  to  a  number  of  jewelers 
and  to  various  dealers  in  notions.  None  of  them  could 
help  him  except  negatively.  He  could  not  learn  who  had 
manufactured  it,  though  he  made  himself  a  nuisance 
among  the  goldsmiths  that  keep  a  guild  in  Maiden  Lane. 

He  was  afraid  to  withhold  the  pin  for  more  than  a  day 
or  two.  He  had  neither  fear  nor  respect  for  the  police, 
but  his  city  editor,  Ulery,  grew  uneasy.  He  questioned  if 
even  the  freedom  of  the  press,  which  overrides  the  freedom 
of  everybody  else,  implied  the  right  to  steal  an  important 
clue  and  keep  it  as  private  property. 

Besides,  the  publication  of  it  might  bring  it  to  the  notice 
o£  the  merchant  who  sold  it.    And  he  might  remember 

542 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

who  bought  it.  Many  crimes  had  been  run  to  earth  in 
just  this  way,  and  the  Gazette  could  claim  the  entire  credit. 

Before  Hallard  relinquished  it  to  the  pohce,  he  gave  it  to 
the  "art  department"  of  the  Gazette,  and  a  huge  portrait 
of  the  pin  was  published  on  the  front  page  with  enlarged 
views  of  the  amethyst  head  and  the  claw  that  gripped  it. 

Other  papers  followed  suit  at  once,  and  the  pin  at  last 
reached  the  eyes  of  the  little  up-town  shopkeeper  who 
had  made  it  himself  from  an  amethyst  out  of  a  bracelet 
and  a  claw  on  an  old  watch-fob. 

The  portrait  of  Merithew  that  accompanied  the  por- 
trait of  the  pin  in  the  newspapers  reminded  him  of  the 
stranger  who  had  bought  it.  He  began  also  to  recall  the 
features  of  the  pretty  girl  who  had  often  paused  to  gaze 
in  at  his  window. 

Greatly  excited,  he  made  haste  to  thimib  over  the 
pages  of  his  day-books.  He  had  to  go  back  almost  a 
year  before  he  found  the  entry  of  the  sale. 

About  this  time  also  the  slow-witted  janitor  of  the 
apartment-house  where  Perry  had  nested  Maryla  for  a 
while,  woke  up  to  the  resemblance  of  the  dead  man's 
pictures  to  the  face  of  the  "Mr.  Brown"  who  had  leased 
an  apartment  and  paid  for  it  longer  than  he  kept  it.  His 
wife  remembered  that  Mrs.  Brown  had  disappeared 
abruptly,  leaving  all  her  clothes,  and  that  Mr.  Brown  had 
paid  the  colored  maid  a  month's  wages  in  Heu  of  notice. 
The  maid  had  reveled  in  her  leisure  for  a  time,  and  later 
taken  service  with  another  tenant. 

Mrs.  Janitor  found  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Merithew  in  one 
of  the  papers,  and  her  tmlikeness  to  "Mrs.  Brown"  was 
complete.  The  janitor  decided  that  they  had  better 
suppress  the  incident  for  the  good  name  of  the  house, 
but  the  janitrix  would  talk,  and  one  of  the  tenants  sold 
his  gossip  to  the  Gazette. 

Before  long  Hallard  was  there  on  the  ground.  Before 
long  he  was  talking  with  the  colored  maid,  Martha.  He 
learned  that  Mrs.  Brown's  first  name  was  "Maryla,"  and 

543 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

that  a  strange  Jew  had  called  upon  her  the  last  day  of 
her  presence  there,  and  had  left  a  bag  full  of  ribbons  and 
pretty  clothes.  Martha  had  found  them  on  the  floor  the 
next  morning. 

Hallard  had  already  heard  Maryla's  name  mentioned 
in  Orchard  Street.  On  the  day  of  the  discovery  of  Meri- 
thew's  body  he  had  spoken  to  her  father,  who  Hved  in 
the  very  tenement.  The  old  man  had  said  that  Maryla 
was  dead,  but  at  the  name  of  Merithew  his  grief  had 
changed  to  wrath,  and  he  had  closed  the  door  in  Hal- 
lard's  face. 

But  Hallard  chuckled  now.  New  doors  were  opening 
for  him  everywhere.  He  had  but  to  find  this  Maryla 
and  he  could  make  the  poHce  look  foohsh,  for  they  were 
still  in  search  of  the  fugitive  Red  Ida  and  the  well-con- 
cealed Aphra  Shaler. 

It  took  a  vast  amount  of  questioning  and  false-clue 
following,  but  Hallard  was  indefatigable.  He  did  not 
pause  for  food  or  sleep  or  even  for  a  shave.  He  ran 
among  the  multitudinous  trails  of  New  York  hke  a 
fanatic  beagle,  red-eyed  and  bristUng;  but  he  was  not 
giving  tongue. 

Before  long  he  burst  into  Dutilh's  shop  and  caused  a 
panic  among  the  birds-of -paradise.  He  asked  for  the  girl 
named  Maryla  and  said  he  had  important  news  for  her. 

She  had  not  been  seen  in  the  shop  for  three  days. 
Hallard' s  half -eyebrow  drew  down  over  one  sly  eye  as  he 
realized  that  the  picture  of  the  hat-pin  had  been  pubUshed 
three  days  before. 

Dutilh  was  in  Europe  buying  clothes,  and  Mrs.  Shen- 
stone  was  difficult;  but  at  length  HaUard  browbeat  her 
into  giving  him  Maryla's  latest  address,  as  well  as  her 
earlier  ones. 

When  he  arrived,  panting,  at  the  boarding-house  where 
Maryla  had  last  resided  according  to  the  Dutilh  address- 
book,  he  learned  that  she  had  paid  her  bill  and  left  there, 
carrying  aU  her  property  in  a  suit-case  and  a  bimdle,  on 

544 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

the  very  day  before  Perry  Merithew  was  found  on  the 
roof. 

And  there  the  trail  ended.  Hallard  stood  sniffing  the 
air  and  whining  Hke  a  beagle  that  has  followed  a  warm 
trail  to  the  border  of  a  stream  in  a  swamp. 

All  the  clue  he  had  now  was  a  mental  portrait  of  Maryla 
gathered  from  the  more  or  less  contradictory  descriptions 
he  had  wheedled  out  of  the  DutiUiettes.  So  far  as  he 
could  find,  no  photograph  of  her  existed. 

He  made  a  trip  to  Orchard  Street  and  invaded  the  home 
of  the  Sokalskis  with  further  pretenses  of  news  to  Maryla's 
advantage.  But  all  he  learned  was  that,  so  far  as  they 
knew,  the  girl  had  never  given  her  image  to  a  camera. 

That  was  a  matter  of  small  difficulty  to  a  newspaper. 
Hallard  told  the  art  editor  about  Maryla  and  her  Polish 
blood,  and  the  editor  dug  out  the  familiar  alleged  por- 
trait of  the  Countess  Potocka  and  had  it  somewhat  doc- 
tored with  more  recent  clothes  and  coiffure.  It  did  not 
represent  Maryla  at  all.  But  neither  does  it  represent 
the  Countess  Potocka. 

Hallard  felt  toward  the  police  of  New  York  as  the 
detective  of  literature  feels  toward  Scotland  Yard.  He 
loved  to  show  them  up  and  expose  their  befuddled  fatuities 
trying  to  rescue  the  commonwealth  from  the  penalty  of 
their  blunders.  Easily  he  showed  them  up,  but  when  it 
came  to  an  offer  of  substitutes  in  the  Merithew  case  the 
rub  began. 

By  a  series  of  calculations  he  satisfied  himself  at  least 
that  there  were  about  one  hundred  thousand  red-headed 
women  in  the  city.  His  task  was  the  mere  elimination 
of  ninety-nine  thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine, 
leaving  the  guilty  solitaire.  It  looked  easier  than  it  was. 
It  was  another  of  the  cases  where  the  r61e  of  critic  on  a 
rock  is  pleasanter  than  that  of  diver  in  the  wreck. 

Hallard  plunged  with  great  enthusiasm  into  the  sub- 
iect  of  hair  and  its  importance  in  identification.    He 

545 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

read  what  he  could  find  out  about  it  in  dictionaries  and 
cyclopaedias.  But  it  left  him  with  new  puzzles,  as  learning 
always  does. 

He  visited  the  Public  Library,  the  marble  storage  ware- 
house of  infinite  himian  lore.  He  smiled  with  anticipation 
at  the  ooimtless  pigeonholes  full  of  drawers  fviU  of  title- 
cards. 

He  took  out  the  drawer  containing  the  names  of  the 
books  on  hair.  There  were  many,  many  on  the  structure 
of  hair  in  animal  and  man,  a  disgusting  number  on  the 
methods  of  preserving  the  hair  from  the  evils  of  emigra- 
tion and  hostile  attack;  the  manipulation,  architectonics, 
and  landscape-gardening  of  it;  histories  of  the  art  of 
coiffure;  the  chemistry  of  changing  and  restoring  its 
natural  tints. 

He  learned  that  there  are  various  great  races  of  hairs, 
according  to  its  cross-section:  the  cylindrical  hair,  wliich 
is  straight  and  flat  and  grows  upon  Mongols,  Malays,  and 
Redskins ;  the  elliptical,  which  is  au-ly  and  flourishes  on 
the  Indo-German  races,  the  Australians,  and  Polynesians ; 
and  the  flattened,  bean-shaped  hair,  which  kinks  upon  the 
negro  skulls. 

But  he  could  find  nothing  that  showed  how  to  tell  a 
hair  from  one  person's  head  from  a  hair  from  another 
person's  head. 

He  found  many  titles  in  other  languages,  but  Hallard 
knew  only  English — ^if  that.  At  length  he  called  in  the 
aid  of  an  interpreter,  a  seedy  scholar,  who  knew  every- 
thing except  how  to  make  as  much  as  ten  dollars  a  week. 
With  this  help  he  found  among  the  Archives  des  Sciences 
Biologiques  published  in  St.  Petersburg  (so  Petrograd  was 
called  in  1900)  an  £tiide  medico-lgeale  sur  les  Foils,  by 
M.  G.  S.  London. 

This  treatise  explained  how  to  make  sure  first  that  a  hair 
was  a  hair,  then  how  to  distinguish  animal  hair  from  human, 
how  to  guess,  more  or  less  accurately,  from  what  part  of 
the  body  it  had  come,  how  to  tell  whether  a  hair  had 

546 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

fallen  out  or  been  combed  out  or  pulled  out,  and  whether 
it  was  natural  or  gray,  and  the  methods  of  artificially 
changing  its  color  with  the  water  of  Javelle. 

But  there  the  demonstration  stopped. 

Hallard  had  no  doubt  whatever  that  che  hair  in  Perry 
Merithew's  fingers  came  from  the  head  of  a  woman. 
There  was  enough  of  it  to  know  that  she  was  not  of  a  black, 
a  yellow,  or  a  red  race. 

He  cut  one  of  the  precious  hairs  through  and  studied  it 
with  a  microscope.  It  was  eUiptical  and  was  therefore 
Polynesian,  Australian,  or  Indo-German.  Hallard  won- 
dered who  the  Indo-Germans  were,  till  he  learned  that  he 
was  one  himself. 

His  shabby  assistant  dragged  from  the  shelves  another 
recondite  treatise  published  in  Leipzig  in  191 1.  It  wore 
the  long-haired  title,  "  Concerning  hair-injiiries  and  the 
post-mortem  alterations  of  hair  in  their  legal  bearing" 
("  Ueber  Hoar  -  verletzungen  und  uher  die  postmortalen 
Verdnderungen  der  Hoar  en  in  forensischen  Beziehung). 
This  promised  well  in  the  translation,  but  Dr.  Walter 
Rottger  was  interested  chiefly  in  the  resistance  of  hair  to 
time,  and  he  triumphantly  announced  that  hair  could  last 
a  thousand  years  under  favorable  circumstances.  Hallard 
was  of  to-day;  yesterday  was  almost  as  uninteresting 
as  its  own  newspapers.  And  he  left  the  Hbrary  with 
small  respect  for  its  moldy  tomes. 

Some  day  when  he  had  time  he  would  expose  it. 

As  he  ran  down  the  uselessly  numerous  front  steps  he 
reaUzed  that  he  had  come  round  by  a  long  journey  from 
the  place  he  had  started  from. 

What  he  had  learned  the  detective  bureau  had  already 
known  and  used.  The  police  were  relying  still  on  the 
magnificent  old  method  of  arresting  everybody  that 
could  be  suspected,  and  subjecting  the  prisoner  to  what- 
ever inquisition  they  could  devise. 


CHAPTER   LXVI 

A  FTER  Worthing  left  Muriel  he  suddenly  remembered 
I~\  her  little  gesture  of  repulsion  when  the  maid  offered 
to  take  down  her  hair.  It  would  have  meant  nothing 
under  other  circumstances,  and  he  would  not  let  it  mean 
anything  now.  He  wotdd  not  disgrace  his  brain  by 
thinking  of  such  rubbish. 

But  a  little  later  he  was  thinking  of  it  again.  The 
papers  were  clamorous  with  the  puzzle  of  the  copper- 
haired  woman.  Muriel's  hair  might  be  called  copper- 
colored.  She  knew  Merithew.  She  knew  that  building 
in  Orchard  Street.  Worthing  himself  had  gone  there  with 
her.  Why  might  not  Merithew  have  gone  there?  It  was 
disloyal  to  admit  the  possibility,  yet  he  could  not  unthink 
his  thoughts. 

Why  had  she  hidden  her  hair  under  that  lace  cap? 
Wasn't  that  a  new  way  she  had  of  doing  up  her  hair? 

The  questions  nagged  him  like  gnats  returning  as  fast 
as  they  were  struck  away.  But  his  love  of  her  kept  pace 
with  his  suspicions.  Suppose  it  had  been  Mtuiel?  Sup- 
pose she  had  gone  to  the  Sokalski  tenement?  Siu-cly  it 
was  on  some  good  errand,  as  she  had  gone  before.  She 
could  not  have  intended  to  murder  Merithew.  There 
could  have  been  no  possible  premeditation  or  malice. 

His  hands  had  clenched  in  the  hair  of  the  woman,  who- 
ever she  was.  If  the  woman  killed  him  then  it  must  have 
been  in  self-defense.  That  might  have  been  the  case 
with  the  proud,  impulsive,  clean-souled  Muriel  he  knew. 
If  Merithew  had  attempted  to  play  the  usual  Merithew 

548 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

with  her  she  would  probably  have  killed  him.    And  a 
good  job,  too ! 

But  how  could  Muriel  have  gone  from  even  the  legiti- 
mate execution  of  Merithew  to  the  consolation  of  his  wife? 
That  seemed  more  neariy  impossible  than  anything  else. 
This  convinced  him  that  his  suspicions  were  insane.  Yet 
they  came  buzzing  back. 

Why  did  she  recoil  when  her  hair  was  threatened  with 
a  touch?  This  query  ran  through  his  head  like  a  stub- 
bom  popular  tune.  In  self-defense  he  busied  himself  with 
a  theory  that  perhaps  Merithew  had  not  been  killed  at 
all.  The  papers  said  so.  But  who  believed  the  papers? 
The  papers  said  the  siu-geons  said  so.  But  it  takes  a 
surgeon  to  know  what  mistakes  stu-geons  make. 

Worthing  felt  a  curiosity  to  make  sure  for  himself. 
Having  been  an  ambulance  rider  at  Bellevue,  he  had 
made  the  acquaintance  of  many  hospital  authorities,  of 
police  surgeons,  and  of  the  coroner.  It  would  not  be 
hard  for  him  to  get  access  to  the  body  itself.  He  resolved 
to  talk  at  once  with  the  man  who  had  made  the  first 
examination  on  the  tenement  roof.  He  would  call  on  him 
casually  and  question  him.  If  he  could  not  find  out  some- 
thing to  acquit  Ivluriel  of  his  suspicions,  he  might  at  least 
gain  some  knowledge  to  protect  her  with  if  she  were  guilty. 

The  word  "guilty"  shocked  him  like  a  sacrilege. 
Whatever  she  had  done,  it  was  no  fit  word  for  her. 

Worthing  was  of  the  all-merciful  school  of  science,  and 
he  felt  rather  sorry  than  angry  toward  all  criminals.  By 
how  much  more  should  he  be  pitiful  toward  the  girl  he 
loved.  He  simply  could  not  believe  that  Muriel  killed 
Merithew.  And  he  simply  could  not  banish  the  thought 
that  she  was  somehow  involved  in  his  death. 

Her  face  came  back  to  him.  Those  eyes  of  hers  had 
tne  sorrowfulest,  loneliest  gaze  he  had  ever  seen;  her  lips 
stri\dng  to  smile  had  twitched  and  paled  with  fright,  and 
her  chin  had  quivered  like  the  chin  of  a  little  girl  trying 
not  to  cry. 

549 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

She  needed  help,  and  by  the  Lord  he  would  help  her. 
His  skill  as  a  physician  might  prove  a  more  potent  wea- 
pon than  all  the  swords  of  all  the  heroes  or  all  the  gold 
of  Winnie  Nicolls. 

By  a  little  adroit  telephoning  he  found  out  the  name 
of  the  hospital  that  sent  the  ambulance  to  Orchard  Street, 
and  the  name  of  the  interne  in  charge  of  it.  He  had 
known  young  Dr.  Arnold  at  Johns  Hopkins.  He  dropped 
in  on  him  and  asked  him  for  the  address  of  an  old  crony 
of  theirs.  After  a  little  idle  gossip  he  made  to  leave,  then 
ttimed  back  to  say,  carelessly: 

"Did  you  read  about  this  Merithew  case?" 

"Did  I.?"  Arnold  laughed.  "I  wrote  it.  I  was  the 
first  svu-geon  on  the  roof." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Worthing.  " I  didn't  see  your  name 
in  the  papers.     Did  they  get  the  story  right?" 

"Do  they  ever?    No!" 

"Where  were  they  wTong?" 

"Everywhere.  In  the  description  of  the  position  of 
the  body,  the  condition,  the  wotmds.  Every  paper  gave 
a  different  story  and  every  one  was  false.  For  instance, 
they  all  spoke  of  the  pools  of  blood.  There  was  really 
very  little,  surprisingly  little." 

"Is  that  so?  Could  I  have  a  look  at  the  victim,  do 
you  suppose?" 

"Siu-e.  He's  in  an  undertaker's  shop  waiting  for  the 
family  to  claim  him  after  the  coroner  gets  through." 

It  was  a  cold-blooded  business  with  these  men,  but 
Worthing's  heart  was  hot  enough  when  he  entered  the 
dingy  shop  in  whose  back  room  Perry  Merithew  was 
ironically  installed.  The  fat  and  amiable  imdertaker 
motioned  Worthing  in  and  left  him  alone. 

Worthing  had  seen  Perry  last  in  the  simlit  ocean.  He 
had  regarded  him  with  angry  jealousy.  Now  his  rival 
seemed  helpless  enough,  as  far  as  possible  from  being 
handsome,  or  rich,  or  merry.  But  was  he  clinging  still 
to  Muriel  ?    Was  there  no  way  to  extract  the  secrets  from 

550 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

those  lips  congealed  together?  Merry  Perry  would 
answer  no  questions  vocally,  but  Worthing  cross-examined 
him  in  his  own  way. 

When  he  came  out  of  the  room,  the  physician  deputized 
by  the  coroner  had  just  returned  from  his  luncheon.  He 
demanded  by  what  authority  Worthing  was  there. 
Worthing  explained  that  he  had  been  called  in  to  attend 
Mrs.  Merithew,  and  had  wished  to  be  able  to  tell  her 
definitely  the  cause  of  her  husband's  demise. 

The  man  was  so  curt  that  Worthing  went  direct  to  the 
coroner,  and  asked  his  opinion  with  more  deference  than 
he  felt  for  the  office. 

"It's  pretty  clear,"  said  the  coroner,  "that  he  died 
of  a  fracture  of  the  skull  from  a  blow  with  a  blunt  instru- 
ment." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Worthing. 

"You  don't,  don't  you?    And  why  not?" 

"The  fractures  I  find  in  the  skull  are  serious,  but  not 
enough  to  cause  death.  If  he  had  been  killed  with  a  blow 
there  would  have  been  a  very  great  effusion  of  blood.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  there  was  very  little.  Wouldn't  that  in- 
dicate that  his  heart  had  stopped  before  he  was  struck? 
I  opened  his  eyelids;  the  pupils  were  dilated  unequally. 
Wouldn't  that  suggest  an  internal  hemorrhage  of  the 
brain?" 

"Don't  ask  me.     Tell  me." 

"I'm  telling  you." 

"What  in  thimder  do  you  think  did  kill  him?" 

"Apoplexy.  I  believe  that  an  examination  will  show 
little  clots  in  the  basal  ganglia  in  the  region  of  the  floor 
of  the  fourth  ventricle." 

"What  could  have  brought  it  on?" 

"Some  big  shock.  Some  overwhelming  emotion.  I 
believe  it  was  a  stroke  of  the  type  caHed  fotidroyant." 

"What  was  he  doing  on  that  roof?" 

"That's  more  than  I  know.  It  must  have  taken  some 
terrific  crisis  to  get  him  there." 

551 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Apoplexy,  eh?  Do  you  know  that  Merithew  had  any 
apoplectic  history?" 

"No;  but  you  know  what  his  life  has  been.  He  looked 
pretty  seedy  when  I  saw  him  yesterday." 

"You  saw  him  yesterday — ^where?" 

"At  Long  Beach.  He  was  dancing  with  a  girl  in  a 
bathing-suit." 

"He  would  be.     Who  was  she?" 

"I  don't  know  her  name.  Her  face  was  familiar, 
though." 

"The  late  extras  mention  his  affair  with  Aphra  Shaler." 

"That's  who  it  was.     I  remember  her  now  perfectly." 

"She's  skipped  the  bailiwick,  scooted  to  New  Jersey. 
The  police  are  after  her." 

"She  never  lolled  him." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"She  had  Hght  blond  hair.     I  noticed  it  on  the  beach." 

"Did  you  see  him  with  any  other  girl — any  copper- 
haired  beauty?" 

"No." 

Worthing  said  it  calmly.  Physicians  have  to  learn 
to  lie  with  deftness.  But  he  began  to  shudder  with  a 
new  dread.  He  just  remembered  that  Perry  Merithew 
had  been  on  the  float  when  Muriel  asked  Worthing  to  call 
for  her  that  evening.  Merithew  had  overheard  the  in- 
vitation. After  Worthing  had  said  how  sorry  he  was 
that  he  had  another  engagement  and  had  swum  away, 
perhaps  she  had  invited  Merithew  to  call. 

The  plausibility  of  this  hurt  Worthing  excruciatingly. 
It  helped  to  confirm  the  infernal  suspicion.  Perhaps 
some  one  else  on  the  crowded  float  had  heard  them  make 
an  engagement,  and  would  come  forward  to  testify. 

The  one  service  he  could  render  her  was  to  attack  the 
theory  of  murder.     He  said  to  the  coroner: 

"Ivook  here,  old  man.  A  lot  of  people  are  in  favor  of 
abolishing  your  office  altogether.  They  say  it's  a  useless 
waste  of  time  and  money.     You've  got  a  chance  to  make 

552 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

a  ten-strike.  Before  you  send  Merithew  back  to  his 
family,  you  have  his  brain  and  heart  removed,  and  send 
them  to  an  expert.  Nobody  needs  to  know  if  the  autopsy 
proves  what  the  papers  say.  But  if  it  proves  that  Meri- 
thew died  of  a  stroke  instead  of  a  weapon,  you  can  turn 
a  neat  trick  on  the  detectives  and  the  reporters." 

The  idea  interested  the  much-maligned  official,  and  he 
agreed  to  act  upon  it.  Worthing  lingered  till  he  heard 
the  instructions  telephoned  to  an  eminent  speciaHst. 
•  Then  he  went  back  up-town  to  the  Schuyler  house  to 
see  his  patient  and  to  question  her.  He  learned  that  she 
had  gone  to  the  country.  He  called  at  the  Merithew 
home  to  inquire  of  the  widow's  condition.  He  learned 
that  the  regular  family  physician  had  arrived  and  taken 
control. 

Worthing  dawdled  away,  Hstless  and  useless.     Nobody 
seemed  to  need  him.     He  had  nearly  had  two  patients  and 
now  he  had  none. 
It 


CHAPTER  LXVII 

THE  Schuyler  country  place  contained  in  itself  nearly 
every  resource  for  diversion;  it  was  a  palace  in  the 
midst  of  a  farm  on  the  edge  of  the  water.  There  were 
wildernesses  and  shorn  lawns,  solitude  and  the  telephone. 
There  were  swimming,  yachting,  canoeing,  tennis,  polo, 
horses,  cattle,  gardening,  books,  dances,  cards,  motoring, 
motor-boating — not  far  away  there  was  even  an  aviation 
field. 

When  the  3'acht  brought  Muriel  to  her  home  some  man 
was  flying  his  new  hydro-aeroplane.  He  rose  from  the 
water  and  soared  till  he  was  above  the  upper  rim  of  the 
sun,  whose  lower  rim  was  just  cutting  the  horizon. 

It  was  like  the  apotheosis  of  a  man  leaving  earth  for 
heaven.  Muriel  remembered  that  Perry  Merithew  had 
ridden  a  hydro-aeroplane  that  day  when  he  had  sailed 
over  the  yacht  and  she  had  first  paid  any  heed  to  him, 
and  she  had  paid  heed  to  him  then  chiefly  because  her  father 
had  warned  her  against  him.  He  had  escaped  aHve  from 
all  the  perils  of  the  air  and  she  had  killed  him.  Now  she 
was  retiiming  from  town  with  giiilt  on  her  sovl,  and  an- 
other man  was  flying  above  the  yacht.  Or  was  it  Perry's 
ghost  ? 

She  wondered  what  had  become  of  his  soul.  It  was 
frightftil  that  he  should  have  been  plunged  into  eternity 
without  a  moment's  warning.  Did  one  go  to  hell  the  way 
a  broken  airship  falls?  Where  was  hell?  Since  he  died 
in  sin,  he  must  have  gone  straight  there.  Or  did  one  go  up 
to  heaven  first  for  judgment?  or  wait  in  the  grave  till  the 
one  great  day? 

554 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

She  wondered  what  hell  was  really  like.  Different 
preachers  differed  so  hopelessly.  Most  of  them  ignored 
it  altogether.  Some  said  it  was  actual  fire  and  burning, 
and  some  said  it  was  just  a  state  of  mind.  Whatever  it 
was,  she  wished  she  could  call  poor  Mr.  Merithew  out 
of  it. 

She  wondered  if  he  knew  that  she  had  not  meant  to 
kill  him — only  to  break  free  from  his  arms,  which  he  had 
no  right  to  put  around  her;  and  to  escape  the  kiss  he  had 
no  right  to  force  upon  her — he  with  so  sweet  a  wife. 

Muriel  wished  that  she  might  get  word  to  poor  Mr. 
Merithew  about  his  wife's  grief  for  him  and  about  her 
own  regret.  But  theology  was  so  far  beyond  her  that  it 
was  the  least  of  her  troubles,  as  it  is  the  least  of  the 
troubles  of  her  generation. 

Every  other  emotion  of  the  girl's  seemed  to  be  at  iis 
maximimi:  remorse,  terror,  love,  tenderness,  the  horror 
of  death,  the  beauty  of  the  world,  the  dread  of  disgrace, 
the  devotion  to  her  home  and  her  parents. 

She  tried  all  the  diversions,  but  they  only  wearied  her. 
She  could  get  no  lilt  into  her  athleticism,  no  sincerity  into 
her  conversation,  no  opportunity  for  her  charity  or  her 
hilarity.  Those  fleet  impulses  of  hers  were  few  now,  and 
desperate,  and  they  must  be  repressed. 

Life  was  a  hopeless  alternation  of  abysmal  glooms  and 
of  heart-throttling  panics.  Life  was  a  waste  of  pains. 
She  would  be  glad  to  be  dead.  Only  her  love  of  her  peo- 
ple, her  anguished  longing  not  to  cause  anybody  else  any 
more  sorrow,  kept  her  from  self-destruction. 

She  was  afraid  to  be  so  far  from  the  city.  She  wanted 
to  go  back  to  the  roof  and  see  if  she  had  not  left  some  clue 
there  that  she  might  snatch  up  before  the  police  found  it. 
She  wanted  to  be  where  she  could  buy  every  extra  edition 
while  it  was  still  damp  from  the  press,  so  that  she  could 
keep  watch  on  the  detectives. 

Yet  when  she  was  recalled  to  the  city  she  was  afraid 
to  be  near. 

555 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

The  recall  came  in  the  most  uncamiy  way.  She  was 
alone  on  a  dark  piazza.  The  moon  shining  through  a 
haze  made  everything  weird.  She  was  trying  to  persuade 
herself  that  Perry  Merithew  was  alive  and  she  was  inno- 
cent. On  the  pool  little  mists  were  floating  like  the  trail- 
ing garments  of  wraiths  in  a  whispering  conspiracy.  She 
was  afraid  to  stay  where  she  was,  and  afraid  to  cross  the 
piazza  to  the  door.  Then  a  servant's  voice  spoke  sud- 
denly out  of  the  dark: 

"You  are  wanted  on  the  telephone,  please." 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Mr.  Perry  Merithew." 

It  was  like  a  ghostly  summons,  and  she  was  assailed 
with  an  ague  of  fright.     She  answered: 

"I  thought  Mr.  Merithew  was  d-dead?" 

"Oh  yes,  Miss.     This  is  the  yoimg  Mr.  Merithew." 

"She  smiled  ironically,  remembering:  the  king  is  dead, 
long  live  the  king.  She  dragged  herself  to  the  telephone 
and  heard  the  youthful  mimicry  of  the  father's  voice: 

"Is  that  you.  Miss  Muriel?  Hope  I  haven't  torn  you 
away  from  cards  or  something  pleasant.  Fact  is,  to- 
morrow is  the  funeral  of  my  poor  old  dad.  The  little 
mother's  awfully  cut  up,  of  course.  She's  taken  no  end  of 
a  shine  to  you.  She  wondered  if  you  would  be  angel  enough 
to  come  and  help  her  through.  It's  a  lot  to  ask.  But 
you've  been  so  good  to  the  other  poor  people,  maybe  you 
would  take  pity  on  her.     Do  you  think  you  cotdd?" 

"Of  coiu-se!    Of  course!" 

"That's  wonderful  of  you.  God  b-bless  you.  Miss 
Muriel." 

He  was  crying.  That  set  her  to  crying.  He  was  the 
boy  trying  to  walk  like  a  man,  and  his  load  was  too  big 
and  too  sudden.  And  Muriel  was  a  girl  too  abruptly 
fltmg  into  womanhood. 

The  fimeral  celebration  was  a  mingling  of  profound 
grief    and    outrageous    sensationalism.     Crowds    fought 

556 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

their  way  into  the  church  and  mobbed  the  police  outside^ 
till  it  was  hard  for  them  to  open  a  lane  wide  enough  to 
let  the  family  through,  and  the  coffin. 

Perry  Merithew  went  down  the  aisle  under  a  great 
mantle  of  violets,  to  music  that  throbbed  enormously  in 
the  air.  His  widow  and  his  son  and  the  nearest  relatives 
followed  in  densest  black  like  paupers.  They  did  not 
know  that  Perry's  heart  and  brain  were  not  in  the  casket 
with  the  rest  of  him.  Perry's  heart  and  brain  had  not 
usually  been  with  his  family. 

Muriel  walked  with  the  household,  and  wore  black 
with  them.  The  almost  unendurable  solemnity  and 
mystery  of  the  ritual  and  the  music  overwhelmed  her, 
but  she  seemed  to  be  like  some  new  and  well-built  ship 
that  weathers  every  storm  the  sea  and  sky  and  wind  and 
lightning  can  wreak  upon  it,  plunges  to  every  trough,  but 
somehow  climbs  out  to  every  crest;  makes  the  worst  of 
every  blast,  but  emerges,  always. 

That  was  what  Mrs.  Merithew  tried  to  tell  Muriel  in 
the  black  hours  after  Perry  had  been  submitted  to  the 
earth: 

"You  have  youth  and  hope  and  beauty  and  the  future. 
Nothing  matters  for  you.  But  it's  all  over  for  me.  I'm 
an  old  woman  with  a  fatherless  boy  to  watch,  and  a  scan- 
dal that  I'll  never  live  down.  I  have  no  ambition  left  and 
only  one  prayer — to  find  the  woman  that  killed  Perry 
and  send  her, after  him  in  worse  disgrace.  If  God  will 
grant  me  that,  I  won't  ask  anything  else  except  forgive- 
ness for  poor  Perry." 

Something  impelled  Muriel  to  say:  "  Do  you  think  you 
ought  to  mix  prayers  for  revenge  with  prayers  for  for- 
giveness? Don't  you  think  revenge  is  out  of  date? 
Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  leave  the  woman  to  the 
law?" 

"FU  leave  her  to  the  law,  never  fear!"  Mrs.  Merithew 
muttered.  "If  I  can  find  her!  And  I  think  I  have  her 
name  already!" 

557 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Miiriel  was  too  startled  to  gasp.  She  simply  looked 
the  question  that  Mrs.  Merithew  answered: 

"Pet  Bettany." 

Muriel  almost  laughed  at  the  surprising  folly  of  this. 
*'How  on  earth  did  you  come  to  think  of  her?" 

"In  going  over  some  old  check-books  of  my  husband's 
the  detectives  found  two  or  three  he  had  made  to  her." 

"Oh,  Pet  was  always  borrowing  from  everybody  right 
■and  left,  and  she  never  paid.  Didn't  her  mother  get  a 
few  checks,  too?" 

"Two  or  three." 

"Then  you  can't  accuse  Pet." 

"No?  What  about  this  letter?  She  sent  it  to  him  at 
his  club;  he  never  got  it ;  it  was  turned  over  to  us."  She 
thrust  into  Muriel's  hand  this  note: 

Perry  Darling, — I  was  a  beast  to  treat  you  so  outrageously. 
But  you  know  that  wolf -temper  of  mine.  I'm  not  really  to 
blame.  I  inherited  it  with  my  other  faults.  When  I'm  jealous 
I  simply  go  blind  with  rage  and  don't  know  what  I'm  saying. 

You  were  an  old  dear  to  me,  and  I'll  promise  to  behave  if 
you'll  take  me  out  again.  Please  telephone.  I'll  wait  at  home 
till  I  hear  from  you.  Pet. 

"What  have  you  to  say  to  that?"  Mrs.  Merithew  de- 
manded. 

"Only  what  you  said,  that  he  never  got  it,"  Muriel 
ventured. 

"But  she  could  have  reached  him  by  telephone,  no 
doubt,  at  another  club." 

"Anyway,  she  hasn't  copper-colored  hair,"  Muriel 
urged  in  a  panic,  wondering  how  she  could  save  Pet  with- 
out imperiling  herself. 

"She  dyed  her  hair  auburn  not  long  ago,"  Mrs.  Meri- 
thew persisted. 

"But  she  woidd  never  have  gone  into  the  slirnis  with 
him.  Why  should  she?  She  had  no  motive.  Besides, 
she  wouldn't  have  taken  his  money,  his  watch,  his  pearl." 

558 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"That  may  have  only  been  a  blind  to  throw  suspicion 
off  the  track." 

"Oh,  in  Heaven's  name,  don't  accuse  her  till  you  are 
sure!"  Muriel  pleaded.  "It  would  be  a  frightful  thing. 
You'd  never  forgive  yourself.  Don't  give  your  heart  up 
to  revenge.  Turn  your  thoughts  to  mercy,  for  your  poor 
husband's  sake,  and  your  own.  If  Pet  had  done  this 
thing  her  hair  would  show  it.  Make  sure  that  it  does 
before  you  give  her  over  to  the  police  and  the  news- 
papers. She  and  her  mother  have  all  the  trouble  they 
can  stand.     You  must  be  careful." 

Muriel  was  so  overwrought  that  Mrs.  Merithew  yielded, 
more  to  appease  her  than  for  any  other  reason.  She 
promised  to  take  no  action  until  she  had  corroboration 
for  her  theory.     But  she  kept  the  letter. 

Seeing  how  exhausted  Muriel  was,  she  forbade  her  to 
stay  longer  and  sent  her  to  her  own  home.  There  she 
foimd  Pet  Bettany. 

Pet  had  repented  her  quarrel  with  Merithew  in  a 
■morning-after  misery.  She  had  wakened  that  day  with 
more  than  a  headache.  She  had  looked  about  the  house 
where  she  and  her  mother  were  beleaguered. 

Poverty  was  round  them  like  a  moat,  and  the  city  was 
in  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  the  army  of  creditors.  There 
was  merrymaking  in  the  town  and  beyond  its  walls. 
Perry  had  given  her  safe-conduct  and  escort  through  the 
lines.  He  was  her  only  friend,  and  she  had  insulted  him 
with  imbecile  lack  of  tact.     It  was  bad  business. 

She  tried  to  reach  him  by  telephone  without  success. 
Then  she  sent  a  note  to  his  club  and  waited  at  home  for 
him. 

Perry  had  not  called  for  her  that  night.  She  had  spent 
the  long,  lone  evening  in  the  dark,  hot  house,  fuming; 
against  him. 

Her  mother  had  gone  out  that  evening  with  an  old 
beau  she  had  tried  to  refurbish.     The  old  beau  had  takea 

559 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Mrs.  T.  J.  B.  to  dinner  and  to  a  theater,  and  a  roof -dance 
afterward.  The  prodigal  mother  had  come  home  at  a  late 
hoiir. 

Pet  bitterly  resented  Perry's  absence  till  she  read  his 
perfect  excuse  in  the  next  afternoon's  head-lines. 

She  had  thought,  "If  he  had  called  on  me  as  I  asked 
him  to,  he  would  be  alive  now." 

She  told  her  mother  about  it.  Her  mother  was  im- 
ir.'diately  alarmed. 

"Good  Lord!  dear,  suppose  they  accused  you?  How 
would  you  prove  you  weren't  with  him?  The  servants 
had  gone  to  bed,  and  I  was  out.  What  proof  have  you? 
Why,  even  I  don't  know  that  you  were  here!  Were  you 
here?" 

Pet  saw  in  her  mother's  eyes  a  look  that  appaUed  her. 
*'My  God!"  she  cried,  "you  don't  suspect  me?" 

"Of  course  not,  my  child;  and  yet  it  is  queer,  isn't  it? 
Suppose  they  asked  me  where  you  were?  I  couldn't 
swear  you  were  home,  could  I?  They  could  prove  that 
I  was  away  myself,  couldn't  they?" 

There  was  a  kind  of  perfunctory  loyalty  in  her  mother's 
tone  that  terrified  Pet.  If  her  own  mother  could  think 
her  capable  of  such  a  crime,  what  would  other  people  think? 

She  knew  that  her  reputation  was  not  beyond  cavil. 
She  knew  that  she  had  enemies;  she  had  been  proud  of 
them,  their  niimber  and  importance.  They  had  given 
2est  to  life.  Now  she  realized  that  enemies  are  liabihties 
and  friends  are  assets. 

Pet  delivered  a  tirade  against  her  mother  that  con- 
vinced Mrs.  T.  J.  B.  of  one  thing  particularly — that  her 
daughter  had  an  ungovernable  temper.  Mrs.  T.  J.  B. 
made  the  most  astonishing  comment: 

"Pet,  my  dear,  you've  really  got  to  learn  to  control 
yourself.     You  look  as  if  you  could  kill  me,  too." 

' '  Too  ?"  Pet  gasped.     ' '  Too  ?    Then  you  do  beHev^' ' 

"I  believe  nothing,"  screamed  Mrs.  T.  J.  B.,  "except 
that  we've  got  to  raise  some  money  somewhere." 

560 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

**  You'd  better  telephone  your  new  old  beau." 

"They  discontinued  the  telephone  this  morning." 

This  was  serious.  The  enemy  had  cut  the  cables. 
Pet  thought  and  thought.  If  only  Perry  were  alive* 
She  had  been  nursing  him  along.  The  thought  of  Perry 
brought  the  thought  of  Muriel  Schuyler. 

The  name  flashed  up  in  her  gloom  with  the  sudden 
brilliance  of  a  lettered  electric  sign.  Pet  had  not  fright- 
ened Perry  into  paying  over  any  money  recently,  but 
perhaps  Muriel  would  be  easier.  She  had  had  mysterious 
dealings  with  Perry,  and  people  who  had  had  mysterious 
dealings  with  Perry  were  doing  their  best  to  keep  them 
dark  just  now. 

Also  Muriel  had  copper-colored  hair.  What  a  pistol 
that  was  to  hold  at  her  head !  Pet  would  pretend  to  be- 
lieve her  guilty,  and  threaten  to  tell  the  police  of  her 
transactions  with  Perry.  Muriel  would  naturally  come 
down  handsomely  to  suppress  even  a  whisper. 

And  then  Pet  quivered  under  the  shock  of  an  appall- 
ing notion — perhaps  Muriel  was  the  guilty  woman.  Why 
not?  The  mere  thought  was  so  impossible  that  there 
might  be  something  in  it.  Pet's  cynical  soul  reached  the 
truth  as  geniuses  sometimes  reach  it — by  arguing  with 
false  logic  from  false  premises. 

Pet  we;at  out  and  telephoned  to  Muriel  at  the  town 
house,  but  learned  that  she  was  in  the  country;  Pet 
could  not  afford  the  trip.  Later  she  went  to  the  funeral. 
That  was  free.  She  saw  Muriel  there.  The  fact  that  she 
was  with  Mrs.  Merithew  quickened  the  suspicions  of  Pet. 

She  went  to  the  Schuyler  home  and  waited.  She  waited 
for  hours  before  Muriel  came  in  and  greeted  her  with 
amazement. 

The  two  had  never  been  friends,  though  they  had  been 
acquaintances  almost  from  cradle  days.  It  puzzled 
Muriel  to  think  that  she  had  just  bedn  defending  Pet,  and 
now  found  her  at  her  own  home. 

S6i 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Hello,  Pet!"  she  said,  with  difficult  cordiality.  "Sorry 
to  have  kept  you  waiting." 

"Hello,  Muriel!     It  doesn't  matter." 

"Sit  down,  do." 

"Thanks.  I'll  keep  you  only  a  moment."  There  was 
a  silence.  Pet  was  looking  at  Muriel's  hair.  Muriel 
caught  the  glance.  It  put  her  instantly  on  her  guard. 
Her  heart  began  to  hammer  with  alarm.  At  length  Pet 
began  to  speak. 

"Terrible  thing  about  poor  Perry,  wasn't  it?" 

"Terrible." 

"Especially  sad  for  you.     You  knew  him  so  well." 

"Did  I?"  said  Muriel. 

"Didn't  you?     I  used  to  see  you  dancing  with  bim." 

"Only  once,  I  think— at  the  Yacht  Club." 

"I  saw  him  give  you  money  then." 

"You  did?"  Muriel  laughed.  Here  was  a  chance  to 
say  a  word  in  Perry's  favor.  "Oh,  that!  Did  you  see 
that?  It  was  funny.  I  had  asked  my  father  for  some 
money  for  a  little  Italian  boy  who  was  kidnapped." 

"Did  he  live  in  Orchard  Street?" 

Pet  leaped  at  the  question  so  eagerly  that  Muriel  imder- 
stood  her  a  little  more.     She  answered,  calmly: 

"No,  he  lived  in  Batavia  Street,  way  down  near  the 
Brooklyn  Bridge.  My  father  wouldn't  give  me  the  money 
to  ransom  him.  Mr.  Merithew  was  at  the  6ffice.  He 
said  he'd  give  it  to  me  if  he  could  borrow  it.  He  tele- 
phoned over  that  he'd  give  it  to  me  if  I  paid  for  it  with  a 
dance.  So  I  did.  It  was  foolish  of  me,  but  his  money 
saved  the  boy  and  it's  saving  other  people  still.  Father 
was  furious  when  I  told  him." 

Pet  stuck  to  the  point.  "Once  you  got  him  interested 
in  charity,  you  persuaded  him  to  go  to  the  slimis  with 
you,  I  suppose,  or  didn't  you?" 

"Never,"  Muriel  answered.  It  is  easy  to  lie  when  a 
direct  question  is  put.  Pet  returned  to  the  attack  from 
another  direction. 

562 


EMPTY    POCKETS    ' 

"When  you  were  kidnapped  Perry  saved  you,  didn't 
he?" 

"Yes,"  said  Muriel.     It  was  pleasant  to  teU  the  truth. 

"You  kept  it  out  of  the  papers." 

"Naturally.     Who  likes  to  be  in  the  papers?" 

"How  did  it  happen  that  Perry  happened  to  be  the 
man?" 

"You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  You  were  with  him 
when  the  word  came.  Winnie  NicoUs  was  with  you. 
He  told  me  you  knew  all  about  it.  Winnie  tried  to  rescue 
me,  too,  and  so  did  Dr.  Worthing.  Mr.  Merithew  hap- 
pened to  succeed." 

"But  why  were  you  so  anxious  to  keep  out  of  sight? 
Why  did  you  leave  for  Europe  right  away?  Why  did 
Perry  follow  you  over?  Why  was  he  always  so  eloquent 
in  your  praise?" 

"Why  are  you  asking  me  all  these  questions  about  the 
poor  feUow?" 

The  pity  in  Muriel's  eyes  at  the  mention  of  his  name 
did  more  to  persuade  Pet  of  Mtuiel's  innocence  than  any 
open  plea  could  have  done.  It  was  another  of  the  in- 
stances where  womanly  intuition  leaps  to  the  wrong  con- 
clusion.    Muriel  repeated  her  question,  coldly: 

"Why  are  you  asking  me  all  these  questions?" 

"Oh,  I  was  just  curious,"  Pet  mumbled,  disconcerted. 

Muriel's  heart  hardened.  "Are  you  trying  to  solve 
the  mystery?" 

"In  a  way." 

"And  you  came  here  to  convince  yotirself  that  I  was 
guilty  of  such  a  hideous  crime?" 

The  sincerity  of  Muriel's  horror  again  undermined 
Pet's  assurance.  Her  evident  confusion  emboldened 
Muriel.     She  laughed  harshly. 

"Do  you  think  that  I  killed  the  poor  man?" 

"Oh  no!  no!    Of  course  not." 

"Oh  yes,  of  course  so,"  Muriel  mocked  her.  Then  she 
spoke  without  mercy.      "Miss  Bettany,  you  might  be 

563 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

in  better  business  than  this.     If  you  start  to  throwing 
suspicion  around  some  of  it  might  fall  on  yourself." 

"On  me!"  Pet  cried,  but  weakly,  remembering  her 
mother's  curious  manner. 

Muriel  pushed  the  charge.  "Mr.  Merithew  was  killed 
in  the  heart  of  the  slimis.  The  police  say  he  was  robbed. 
They  are  looking  for  the  thief  among  the  thieves.  If  you 
begin  to  hint  that  some  one  in  his  own  set  took  him  down 
there  and  killed  him,  you  may  set  the  poHce  on  yovu*  own 
track." 

"How  dare  you!"  Pet  stormed.  "As  if  I  couldn't 
prove  that  I  wasn't  with  him!" 

"But  can  you?"  Muriel  ventured.  She  took  a  wild 
chance,  and  she  saw  that  it  scored.  She  went  after  Pet 
like  a  boxer  who  has  landed  a  lucky  blow.  "You  may 
not  know  that  the  letter  you  wrote  Mr.  Merithew  fell  into 
his  wife's  hands.  It  speaks  of  your  blind  temper.  Mrs. 
Merithew  showed  me  that  note  this  afternoon.  The  poor 
woman  wanted  to  have  you  arrested.  I  used  my  influence 
to  quiet  her.  I  told  her  that  whatever  else  you  were  ca- 
pable of,  you  couldn't  commit  murder.  She  referred  to 
the  fact  that  you  had  recently  painted  your  hair  a  rich 
copper  color." 

Pet  could  not  endiire  the  sublime  injustice  of  this.  "My 
liair?"  she  shrieked.  "  My  hair  is  my  alibi !  Do  you  want 
to  see  it?"     She  was  taking  off  her  hat. 

Muriel  checked  her.  "  Don't  insult  me  by  thinking  I'm 
as  suspicious  as  you  are.  I  don't  beUeve  for  one  minute 
that  you  are  guilty.  I  only  say  that  you'd  better  not 
begin  to  juggle  heavy  weights  for  fear  you  might  drop 
one  on  your  own  toe.  You  mustn't  forget  that  only  a 
night  or  two  before  Mr.  Merithew's  death  you  were  seen 
with  him  in  a  restaurant.  You  quarreled  with  him  out- 
rageously. It  was  very  uncomfortable  for  the  rest  of  us. 
The  waiters  were  in  ecstasies  and  the  head  waiter  was  in 
despair.  Mr.  Nicolls  and  his  aunt  and  my  father  and 
Doctor  Worthing  were  there  with  me." 

564 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Pet's  desperation  rekindled  her  anger.  "I  offered  to 
show  you  my  hair  to  prove  that  none  of  it  was  cut  cff» 
Will  you  show  me  yours?" 

Muriel  stared  at  her  with  disdain.  "Certainly  not. 
Of  all  the  astounding  impertinences  I  ever  heard  of! 
If  you'll  bring  a  policeman  I'll  show  him.  But  at  the 
same  time  I'll  have  to  mention  your  note  to  poor  Mr. 
Merithew  and  your  ferocious  quarrel  with  him,  and  your 
little  effort  to  throw  suspicion  on  me.  Perhaps  the  hair 
wasn't  your  own.  What  if  it  was  a  transformation?" 
Many  women  do  wear  transformations.  Perhaps  the 
woman  that  killed  him  had  one  on.  Perhaps  the  hair 
they  found  in  his  hands  was  false." 

If  Pet  had  never  before  had  the  feeling  of  murder  in 
her  heart  she  felt  it  now.  She  could  have  flown  at  Muriel 
and  torn  her  face  to  shreds.  But  Muriel  was  an  athlete 
of  well-known  prowess  and  Muriel  was  calm  and  ready 
for  her.  Muriel  at  bay  was  developing  the  cimning  of 
despair. 

The  most  disgusting  thing  about  Pet's  cyclones  of  rage 
was  that  they  usually  ended  in  rain.  She  was  so  helpless 
now  that  she  broke  down  and  wept.  Her  tears  softened 
Muriel  as  nothing  else  could  have  done.  But  she  com- 
pleted her  conquest  before  she  yielded  to  mercy. 

"You  were  speaking  about  the  money  you  saw  Mr. 
Merithew  give  me.  What  about  the  money  he  gave 
you?    Mrs.  Merithew  has  the  checks." 

Pet  wanted  to  roll  off  the  chair  to  the  floor  imder  this 
final  shame.     But  Muriel  was  saying: 

"Everybody  knows  that  you  and  your  mother  have 
been  awfully  hard  pressed,  and  people  have  said  you  have 
been  living  by  your  wits.  It  just  occurs  to  me  that  your 
real  reason  for  coming  to  see  me  was  to  scare  me  into  pay- 
ing you  something,  now  that  poor  Mr.  Merithew  is  out 
of  your  reach?     Is  that  true?" 

Pet  wailed  like  a  banshee  at  this,  but  it  convinced 
Muriel.     She  felt  a  deep  sorrow  for  her.     She  had  heard 

565 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

much  of  the  poverty  of  the  once-rich.  She  put  her  hand 
on  Pet's  shoulder.  Pet  shook  it  off  with  a  snarl,  but 
Muriel  was  not  to  be  thwarted. 

"  Listen,  my  dear,"  she  said  in  a  soft  voice,  "you  couldn't 
have  had  any  other  reason.  You  must  have  been  ter- 
ribly hard  pressed  to  think  of  it.  You  must  need  money 
awfully.     I'm  going  to  give  you  some.     Will  you  take  it  ?" 

"No,  no,  no,  no!"  Pet  howled. 

"I'm  going  to  give  it  to  you,  anyway,"  Muriel  said. 
"My  father  gave  me  a  hundred  doUars  to  get  some  flowers 
for  poor  Mr.  Merithew's  funeral.  I  telephoned  for  them 
and  had  them  charged.  I've  got  the  cash  here.  You'll 
take  it,  won't  you?  Please!  He  would  have  liked  you 
to  take  it." 

Pet  shook  her  head  frantically,  but  Muriel  took  money 
from  her  own  handbag  and  transferred  it  to  Pet's.  Pet 
hardly  knew  it. 

"I  can  give  you  more  when  you  need  it,"  Muriel  said, 
feeling  a  strange  rapture  in  the  ultimate  luxury  of  return- 
ing good  for  evil.  And  the  tritimphant  canniness  of  brib- 
ing a  dangerous  pursuer  was  strangely  admixed  with  her 
charity. 

Pet  was  thinking  bitter  thoughts  in  the  hiding  of  her 
shut  eyes,  but  the  talisman  of  that  hundred  dollars  was 
irresistible.  Her  pride  had  died  long  ago.  She  had  taken 
money  on  far  less  honorable  terms.  Muriel  was  rich. 
And  Muriel  made  it  easy  by  pretending  to  let  her  pretend 
that  she  did  not  know  it  was  there.  So  she  refused  again 
to  accept  it,  but  did  not  eject  it  from  her  handbag. 

When  she  opened  her  bloodshot,  tear-stained  eyes, 
she  was  like  a  wildcat  that  has  fought  in  vain  against  the 
gentleness  of  a  trapper  who  feeds  it  and  lets  it  go. 

Her  escape  was  conveniently  faciHtated  by  the  arrival 
oi  a  purblind  servant  who  announced,  "Miss  Sokalska." 

Muriel  nodded.  Pet  mopped  her  eyes  angrily  with  a 
dripping  handkerchief.  Muriel  handed  her  a  dry  one, 
and  said: 

566 


Pet  had  forgotten  to  say  "Thank  you!"  but  it  is 


)t  expected  of  untamed  animals  given  their  liberty. 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

•'Won't  you  stay  and  meet  her?" 

Which  was  equivalent  to  saying,  "  Of  coiu'se  you  won't." 
Pet  shook  her  head  and  hurried  out  as  Maryla  came  in. 

Pet  had  forgotten  to  say  "Thank  you,"  but  it  is  not 
expected  of  imtamed  animals,  given  their  Hberty. 


CHAPTER  LXVIII 

MURIEL'S  victory  over  Pet  Bettany  was  so  vital 
to  her,  and  she  had  won  it  at  such  expense  of  con- 
science, that  she  hardly  noticed  Maryla  till  Pet  was  gone. 
She  was  ready  to  sink  down  with  battle-fag,  but  the 
sight  of  Maryla  revived  her. 

For  Maryla  carried  her  baby  in  her  arms.  There  was 
a  beatitude  in  Maryla's  eyes  now,  and  pride  in  place  of 
shame  in  her  carriage.  And  the  baby  at  her  breast  was 
chortling  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  in  the  original  version. 

A  gurgle  of  laughter  caught  Muriel's  ear  first  with 
instant  contagion.  Nothing  could  have  made  her  laugh 
so  weU  or  so  thoroughly  as  that  irresistible  origin  of  all 
laughter,  the  inarticulate  contentment  of  a  well-fed 
infant. 

She  rushed  to  Maryla  with  a  cry  of  delight  and  robbed 
her  of  the  child.  Maryla  was  a  rank  novice  as  a  matron, 
but  she  tried  to  look  as  wise  as  the  mother  of  a  dozen. 

With  the  fine  discrimination  of  infants,  this  baby,  who 
owed  the  recovery  of  its  mother  to  Muriel,  decided  that 
Muriel  was  something  dangerous.  It  was  frantically  afraid 
of  her  and  tried  to  wriggle  from  her  grasp,  emitting  yelps 
of  fear  and  flinging  its  hands  out  for  rescue.  Muriel  had 
a  superstitious  feeling  that  the  baby  was  mystically  aware 
of  her  crime. 

Maryla  took  back  her  own.  She  tried  to  comfort 
Muriel. 

"Babies  are  always  such.  She  cried  so  when  foist  I 
took  her  off  the  noisse  she  had  by  Foundlings." 

"When  did  you  go  there  for  her?"  Muriel  asked. 

572 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

*'  That  same  night  you  gave  me  such  of  a  talking.  And 
it  was  a  good  business  for  me." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  am  there  that  night  Meesteh  Merithew  is 
died." 

Muriel  was  startled.  "What  differpnce  did  that  make 
to  you?" 

The  infant  had  fallen  asleep  on  its  mother's  bosom. 
Maryla,  asking  permission  with  a  look,  laid  it  down  on 
a  big  divan  and  turned  back  to  Muriel. 

"Meesteh  Merithew  is  the  f adder  of  this  bebby." 

Muriel  could  not  understand  her  till  she  had  re- 
peated it. 

"Yes.  I  did  not  told  you  because  you  are  friends  by 
him  like  you  are  by  me  and  everybody.  But  it  is  so. 
He  is  the  f adder.     He  was  the  f adder." 

Muriel  gripped  the  arms  of  her  chair  lest  the  swirl  of 
it  cast  her  to  the  floor.     Maryla  talked  on: 

"If  the  policers  should  find  me,  I  can  make  a  proving 
that  I  am  not  on  the  roof  that  night." 

"Why  should  the  poHce  look  for  you?" 

"Oh,  they  will;  they  do  now.  Didn't  you  see  the 
picture  they  print  it  in  papers  of  the  het-pin?" 

"I  saw  that,"  Muriel  said.  "But  I  never  knew  whose 
it  was — ^it  wasn't  yours?" 

"Sure!  It  was  the  het-pin  I  showed  you  that  time  I 
am  here  for  tea.  I  was  telling  you  I  wanted  to  stick  it 
in  the  heart  of  that  f adder." 

"But  you— you  didn't  kiU  him!" 

"No,"  Maryla  laughed.  "I  wanted  it,  but  I  could  not 
found  him.  It  is  why  I  come  to  see  you  now.  That  pin 
in  the  papers  is  the  pin  I  leaved  here  that  day." 

"You  left  it  here!" 

"Sure.  I  hand  it  to  you.  You  put  on  table.  I  go 
away  in  a  horry.  Outside,  I  find  I  have  no^het-pin.  I 
am  afraid  of  that  big  man  you  have  for  your  doorkeeper. 
I  go  on  by  Foundlings." 

573 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"You  left  the  pin  here?"  Muriel  pondered.  "But  I 
left  it  on  the  table.     I  never  saw  it  again." 

"No,  not  you."  Maryla  lowered  her  voice.  "It  is 
why  I  am  here.  Somebody  in  this  house  did  take  that 
pin,  maybe.  That  Merithew  is  bad  man  by  young  goils. 
I  am  thinking  some  soivant-goil  there  is  in  yoiu-  house 
and  he  makes  love  by  her  Uke  by  me.  And  she  kills  him, 
maybe.     So  I  come  to  tell  you  to  tell  her  to  look  out. 

"If  pohcers  arrest  me,  I  must  tell  it  is  not  me.  For 
I  cannot  die  now  for  somebody  else.  I  have  my  bebby. 
But  I  don't  want  nobody  else  to  die  for  that  bad  man. 
It  is  enough  that  he  dies  like  he  should  ought  to  have  died 
before  he  makes  so  many  yoimg  goils  bad  without  mak- 
ing more  yet." 

Mtuiel  began  to  tmderstand.  She  remembered  that 
when  Perry  Merithew  invited  her  to  take  the  'bus-ride 
with  him  she  had  put  her  hat  on  in  the  dark.  She  had 
caught  up  two  hat-pins  from  her  dressing-table.  On  the 
roof  there  he  had  taken  them  out  when  he  lifted  her  hat 
from  her  hair.  Afterward  she  had  tried  to  reach  one  of 
them  in  vain.  When  she  saw  the  hat-pin  pictured  in  the 
newspapers  it  had  meant  nothing  to  her  but  a  blind  clue. 
Now  she  was  convinced  that  it  was  Maryla's  hat-pin  that 
she  had  worn.  And  Maryla  had  come  to  tell  her.  And 
Maryla  was —  Muriel  had  kiUed  the  father  of  Maryla's 
child! 

She  could  not  carry  everjrthing.  She  collapsed  in  her 
chair  v/ith  a  groan  of  surrender,  and  began  to  weep  in 
craven  helplessness. 

Maryla,  overjoyed  at  being  able  to  help  her  from 
whom  she  had  had  so  much  help,  gathered  her  into  her 
arms  to  comfort  her.     But  Muriel  pushed  her  away. 

"You  mustn't  touch  me.  Not  you.  But  I  didn't 
mean  to  harm  you  when  I — when  I —  I  didn't 
know  that  he  was  the  man.  I  didn't  know.  You 
didn't  tell  me." 

She  could  not  say  it.    She  did  not  need  to.     Maryla 

574 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

understood.  The  blow  felled  her  to  her  knees.  She 
clung  to  the  arm  of  Muriel's  chair  and  whispered  questions 
that  Muriel  answered.  Now  it  was  not  Maryla  who 
groveled  and  Muriel  who  comforted,  but  vice  versa. 

Muriel  told  her  the  whole  story.  For  all  the  shame, 
it  was  glorious  to  tell  it,  even  to  this  girl;  especially  to 
this  victim  of  her  act.  At  last  the  secret  was  expressed, 
the  cinder  was  out  of  her  eye,  the  splinter  out  of  her  palm, 
the  fish-bone  out  of  her  throat.  There  is  no  greater  hap- 
piness granted  mankind  than  this  first  free  moment  of 
relief. 

The  problems  of  the  future  were  unchanged — ^increased, 
perhaps,  because  she  had  exposed  her  guilt.  But  she  could 
draw  a  few  deep  breaths  at  least. 

Muriel  belonged  to  the  class  that  used  the  police  and 
the  law  for  its  protection  and  convenience.  Maryla  be- 
longed to  the  class  that  they  abused  and  cowed.  To 
Maryla  the  police  were  dangerous  tyrants  who  drove 
push-cart  owners  from  profitable  stands,  prevented  chil- 
dren from  playing,  treated  the  poor  with  contempt  and 
violence.  It  was  legitimate  and  necessary  to  match  one's 
wits  against  policers. 

It  was  natural  for  her  to  sympathize  with  Muriel,  to 
believe  that  she  meant  no  harm,  and  that  her  first  busi- 
ness was  to  escape  from  the  consequences  of  what  she 
coiild  not  help.  Her  reverence  for  Muriel  made  her  be- 
lieve that  Muriel  had  not  yielded  to  Perry  Merithew's 
magnetic  spell. 

Maryla  knew  that  roof,  knew  that  ledge  they  had 
looked  across,  knew  even  the  old  box  they  had  stood  on. 
The  fact  that  Muriel  had  entered  the  house  in  Maryla's 
behalf,  in  the  hope  of  pleading  with  her  father  to  take  her 
back,  was  the  final  proof  of  Muriel's  angelhood. 

Maryla  promised  to  save  her  at  any  cost.  She  resolved 
to  save  her  if  she  had  to  sacrifice  herself  for  her. 

She  told  Muriel  so,  and  begged  her  to  feel  safe  from 
all  danger. 

•  575 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"They  will  not  catch  me,"  she  said;  "but  should  they 
catch  me,  I  got  my  proof.  I  was  by  Foundlings  that 
night.  And  my  bebby  sleepink  in  my  arm.  And  such 
a  sleepink  it  was  for  me!  the  foist  in  how  long  I  don't 
know.  But  only  for  you  I  should  not  have  my  bebby 
now.  And  besides,  I  am  noisse  to  another  little  bebby 
whose  mother  was  like  me.  She  ran  away,  too,  and  did 
not  come  back  yet.  I  am  doing  much  good.  I  am  very 
heppy. 

"Should  those  policers  catch  me,  don't  you  say  nothink. 
I  won't  say  nothink  till  it  comes  by  court-house.  Then 
I  laugh  and  I  say,  'Go  esk  Sister  Superiors  where  I  am 
that  night.'  Then  those  old  judges  look  like  a  fool  and 
they  gotta  let  me  go.  If  they  don't  let  me  go,  then  you 
shall  take  care  of  my  bebby,  yes !  It  should  be  right,  too, 
that  I  soffer,  for  I  wanted  to  kill  that  man  and  I  did  not. 
You  did  not  want,  but  you  did.  If  somebody's  got  a  right 
to  get  a  ponishment  it  is  not  you." 

Muriel  protested  that  the  scheme  was  impossible,  in- 
tolerable. But  Maryla  only  laughed.  She  gathered  her 
baby  in  her  arms  and  went  out,  smiling. 

Again  Muriel  went  to  the  door  with  her.  Maryla's 
last  words  were: 

"Don't  you  be  afraid  of  nobody.  All  comes  right. 
You  trost  me.     All  comes  right." 

Muriel  dined  alone  that  evening  in  the  big  dining-room. 
She  ravened  after  her  food,  for  her  strength  had  been 
drained  in  a  dozen  labors,  and  she  had  told  somebody  her 
secret. 

She  had  no  intention  of  letting  Maryla  bear  her  penalty. 
But  she  had  gained  a  confidante  and  a  promiser  of  help. 
That  was  much. 

When  she  went  to  her  room,  however,  and  the  long 
evening  stretched  before  her  and  lost  itself  in  an  endless 
road  of  long  evenings,  sorrow  resimied  its  possession  ot- 
her.   She  could  see  nothing  in  her  past  that  was  pleasant, 

576' 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

and  nothing  in  her  future  but  guilt  and  solitude.  And 
she  could  not  get  used  to  sorrow. 

She  heard  the  door-bell  ring  faintly.  The  police  had 
arrived  at  last.  Maryla  had  gone,  and  her  father  was  in 
the  country.  They  would  take  her  away.  She  wondered 
where  she  coiold  hide.  She  ran  and  locked  the  door  as 
silently  as  she  could.  She  waited  a  long,  long  while  for 
the  tap  of  a  servant's  knuckles,  but  it  did  not  come.  She 
wondered  what  dreadful  conference  was  being  held  below. 
She  imagined  the  protest  the  people  of  the  household 
would  make  against  the  incursion  of  the  poHce.  She 
could  see  them  thrust  aside.  She  waited  now  for  the  door 
to  be  forced. 

Still  there  was  no  sound.  She  could  not  bear  the  wait- 
ing. She  must  hear  what  was  going  on  below.  She  tip- 
toed across  the  room,  turned  the  key  back  stealthily,  and 
the  bolt,  and  opened  the  door  with  all  gentleness.  She 
peered  through  the  crevice.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
upper  hall.     But  the  stairway  was  all  alight. 

She  stepped  out  and  stared  at  the  glistening  marble 
of  the  balustrade.  There  was  a  curious  sound  as  of  some 
animal  creeping  slowly  up  the  stairway.  There  was  a 
sound  of  heavy  breathing. 

Fascinated  with  terror,  she  drew  near  the  well  of  the 
stairway.  Just  before  she  reached  it  she  heard  another 
sound,  an  incredible  sound,  as  of  some  one  snickering. 
Then  came  an  explosion  of  boyish  laughter,  a  loud  tin- 
tinnabxiltaion  Hke  a  bell  rolling  down-stairs. 

She  ran  to  the  rail,  marveling,  and  peered  over.  A 
young  lad  whose  face  she  could  not  quite  remember,  yet 
almost  remembered,  was  climbing  slowly  with  some  effort 
up  Jacob's  Ladder. 

She  stared,  unbelieving.  Then  she  ran  to  the  head  of 
the  stairs.  Her  knees  weakened  and  she  sat  down  on 
the  top  step  and  put  out  her  arms,  crying: 

"Happy!     Happy  Hanigan,  is  it  you?" 

The  boy  paused,  and  a  look  of  disgust  erased  his  huge 

577 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

smile.  He  growled:  "Aw,  hell!  I  was  hopin'  to  supprise 
you." 

"It's  you!"  she  laughed.  "And  how  you  did  surprise 
me!  And,  oh,  how  straight  you  are!  And  all  dressed 
up!    Why,  Happy,  Happy!" 

She  ran  down  farther  and  caught  him  in  her  arms  with 
hungry  satisfaction.  She  was  too  blind  with  tears  to  see 
Clinton  Worthing  watching  upward  from  the  hall. 

The  situation  was  over-subtle  for  Happy.  He  had 
counted  on  being  welcomed  with  a  jubilee,  not  with  such 
noisy  sorrow. 

"I  tried  to  keep  from  laughin',"  he  apologized,  "but  de 
damn  giggles  bubbled  out  o'  me  like  sody-worter." 

Still  she  wept. 

"If  I'm  bodderin'  you,  by  bein'  here,  I  guess  I  better 
beat  it!"  he  said.  "I  told  Dr.  Woithin'  he  had  a  right 
to  warn  you  I  was  comin'." 

But  Muriel  clung  to  him  all  the  harder,  hampering  him 
with  the  uncomfortable  awkwardnesses  of  a  woman's  em- 
brace. And  she  rumpled  his  sleek  hair  with  her  caresses. 
And  she  had  not  even  commented  on  the  details  of  his 
magnificent  costimie.  And  her  tears  soaked  his  cheeks 
with  unbecoming  salt. 

The  best  she  could  find  to  say  was:  "You're  my  boy, 
aren't  you,  Happy?  I've  got  you,  anyway,  haven't  I? 
You're  my  boy.     Say  it!" 

He  grumbled:  "Well,  o'  course  I  got  a  mudder  already. 
But  I  'ain't  got  no  wife  yet.  Did  you  wait  like  I  told 
you  to?" 

"Yes,  I've  waited,"  she  sighed. 

"I  hope  you  won't  mine  waitin'  awhile  longer,"  Happy 
said.  "I  guess  you  gotta.  Me  newspaper  business  is 
swiped  by  now,  I  guess,  and  it  takes  time  to  build  it  up 
again.  But  I'm  not  crooked  any  longer.  Watch  me." 
He  strutted  along  the  wide  steps  of  the  stairs.  "And  I 
can  take  a  deep  breat'  wit'out  it  hoitin'  me."  He  puffed 
out  his  little  partridge  chest.     "Huh!     I  should  worry!" 

578 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Muriel's  eyes,  following  his  unshackled  motions,  saw 
Clinton  Worthing  at  last. 

"Clinton!"  she  exclaimed,  and  she  ran  down  as  he  ran 
up.  They  met  on  the  first  great  sweep  of  the  stairway, 
and  their  hands  gripped  hard. 

Happy  watched  them,  then  turned  his  back  and  said: 
"Go  on  and  kiss  him;    I  ain't  lookin'." 

The  command  came  so  pat  upon  her  impulse  that  she 
almost  obeyed  it.  Worthing  was  too  confused  to  know 
what  to  say  or  do.     So  he  said  and  did  nothing. 

Muriel  led  him  into  the  living-room  and  asked  him 
questions  about  Happ5^  She  gave  Happy  a  book  of 
polar  exploration,  and  he  curled  up  on  the  big  divan 
under  the  lamp  and  looked  at  pictures  till  he  fell  a.sleep. 

He  lay  in  the  relaxed  grace  of  all  sleeping  animals, 
and  he  was  in  such  contrast  with  his  former  cruel  mis- 
assembly  that  Muriel  felt  him  to  be  almost  a  work  of 
art.  And  he  was,  indeed,  a  masterpiece  of  the  new  living 
sculpture,  surgery. 

"Has  his  mother  seen  him?"  she  asked.  "What  did 
she  say?" 

"You  ought  to  have  heard  her.  She  credited  it  all  to 
you  and  me  and  her  other  patron  saints.  She  woiild  have 
had  a  pair  of  wings  wished  onto  my  shoulder-blades  if  I 
had  not  run  away.  And  she  puts  you  right  up  in  the 
stars." 

Muriel  was  mightily  pleased  and  comforted.  She  had 
given  one  child  a  new  life  and  an  enlarged  hope.  If  only 
she  had  not  robbed  one  man  of  his  life  and  all  his  hope! 
Even  while  her  mouth  was  smiling  her  brows  were  knit 
with  the  old  agony  and  the  tears  began  to  burn  her  eyes 
once  more.  She  stared  at  Worthing  with  the  most 
poignant  regret  of  all. 

She  could  see  that  he  loved  her,  and  she  coiild  have 
loved  him  if  only  that  ghastly  barrier  of  her  deed  had 
not  walled  them  apart. 

Then  she  realized  that  she  had  left  oflE  her  lace  cap 

579 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

when  she  ran  out  to  the  stairs.  In  embracing  Happy  her 
hair  had  been  disheveled.  While  she  cried  over  him  a 
tliick  strand  of  it  slipped  dovm  along  her  shoulders. 

As  she  began  to  put  it  up  she  saw  that  Worthing  was 
staring  at  her.  He  turned  pale.  He  must  have  seen  the 
traces  of  the  penknife  in  the  two  or  three  short  strands 
that  she  had  kept  hidden  hitherto. 

Of  all  the  men  in  the  world,  she  woiild  have  chosen  him 
last  as  the  discoverer.     And  he  had  seen  her  ragged  hair. 

She  could  think  of  nothing  to  say.  She  had  no  strength 
to  run.  Her  teeth  chattered  and  she  was  shaken  and 
jolted  with  queer  spasmic  shudders. 

She  waited,  wavering  and  cowering,  for  him  to  speak. 
He  was  silent  a  long  time ;  then  his  first  words  were : 

"May  I  smoke?" 

She  nodded,  her  head  dod-doddering  ludicrously. 
Evi-evidently  he  had  something  very,  very  important  to 
say — to  say.  When  her'  father  had  s-something  im- 
important  to  say,  he  al-alway-always  li-lighted  a  cigar 
first. 


CHAPTER   LXIX 

WORTHING'S  deliberation  was  terrifying.  He  took 
a  cigar  from  one  pocket,  a  match-box  from  another, 
selected  a  match  with  care,  lighted  it,  let  it  bum  almost 
out,  then  put  it  to  his  cigar  and  brought  the  cigar  to  a 
glow,  then  rose  and  moved  about,  looking  for  a  place  to 
drop  the  match.  Then  he  walked  to  the  divan  where 
Happy  slept,  and  sauntered  to  the  two  doors  and  looked 
into  the  hall  and  into  the  drawing-room.  Then  he  walked 
to  Muriel  and  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"Are  you  interested  in  Perry  Merithew,  oc  has  all  the 
newspaper  sensation  tired  you  out?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  whispered. 

He  gazed  at  her  with  eyes  of  all  tenderness  and  said: 
"While  the  police  and  the  reporters  are  looking  for  the 
woman  who  killed  him,  I  have  just  learned  that  he  was 
not  killed  at  all.     He  died  of  apoplexy." 

Muriel  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  little  moan  like  a  gush 
of  blood.  "Oh,  thank  God!  Thank  God!"  Then  she 
fell  forward.     His  arms  saved  her  and  upheld  her. 

When  she  was  somewhat  restored  she  began  to  tremble 
again,  and  to  babble:  "Why  do  you  say  that?  How 
could  you  know?  Who  told  you?  How  could  they 
tell?" 

He  told  her  of  his  investigation,  his  reasons,  his  talk  with 
the  coroner.  He  had  visited  the  laboratory  of  the  expert 
that  afternoon.  To-morrow  the  expert  would  report  the 
result  of  his  findings  to  the  coroner  in  confidence. 

"What  he  will  do,  or  the  police,  I  don't  know." 

S8i 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"What  does  it  matter  what  they  do?"  Muriel  said. 
"The  one  wonderful  thing  is  that  he  was  not  killed." 

Worthing  did  not  ask  her  why  this  meant  so  much  to 
her.  He  smoked  while  she  sat  pondering  the  miracle  of 
release  from  sin,  breathing  the  pure  air  of  blood-guilt- 
lessness.    That  was  enough  for  a  while. 

At  length  he  said,  less  from  curiosity  than  from  a  de- 
sire to  be  of  use  to  her:  "Of  course  the  poHce  will  still 
be  interested  in  knowing  who  was  with  him,  who  robbed 
him  of  his  valuables." 

"He  wasn't  robbed,"  Muriel  whispered.  "He  gave 
them — of  his  own  free  will — for  charity." 

He  did  not  ask  her  how  she  knew  this.  He  was  too 
busy  with  the  jealous  pangs  of  hearing  her  attribute 
benevolence  to  the  man.  It  was  not  easy  to  browbeat 
himself  out  of  a  bitter  resentment ;  but  he  was  determined 
to  help  her  all  he  could.  He  went  on,  his  voice  colder 
than  his  heart  was: 

"The  police  will  want  to  know  what  brought  on  the 
stroke  of  apoplexy,  and  why  the  man  was  beaten  over 
the  head,  and  what  the  weapon  was,  and  how  and  why 
the  woman  got  away,  and  who  she  was?" 

Both  of  them  sat  staring  at  the  floor  for  a  long  while, 
before  she  turned  her  eyes  to  him  and  he  turned  his  to 
her.     Then  her  eyes  fell  and  she  murmured: 

"You  know  who  the  woman  was." 

"Yes,"  he  sighed. 

"May  I  tell  you  in  my  own  way  all  that  happened?" 

"For  God's  sake,  do!" 

Then  she  told  him  in  a  woman's  way,  beginning  far 
back,  breaking  the  course  of  the  story  with  countless  di- 
gressions and  corrections  and  repetitions.  He  was  tor- 
mented by  these  tests  of  his  patience,  but  he  was  soothed 
by  his  inability  to  find  a  trace  of  love  for  Merithew  in 
anything  she  said.  She  defended  him  from  the  slanders 
she  had  heard;    she  praised  his  generosity  more  than 

582 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

Worthing  enjoyed;  she  showed  a  friendship  for  him  and 
an  admiration  that  Worthing  disapproved;  but  she  re- 
vealed no  hint  of  amorous  interest  in  him. 

She  carried  the  history  on  to  the  last  afternoon,  when 
she  had  urged  Worthing  to  call  on  her  that  evening.  She 
did  not  need  to  tell  him  that  if  he  had  obeyed  the  behest 
of  his  love  instead  of  the  demand  of  his  profession,  she 
woiild  not  now  be  in  the  web  of  this  bloody  snare. 

She  described  her  careless  acceptance  of  Merithew's 
invitation  to  ride  in  the  moonlight.  She  described  the 
visit  to  the  slums,  and  her  reasons  for  entering  the  Orchard 
Street  tenement;  how  she  foimd  herself  on  the  roof  and 
what  followed  there. 

She  gave  Merithew  fiill  credit  for  the  gift  of  his  watch 
and  ring  and  pearl  and  money.  Then  she  grew  bewildered 
and  entangled  in  the  effort  to  remember  in  sequence  the 
gradual  modulations  from  everything  gentle  and  tender 
to  everj^hing  frightful  and  irrevocable. 

"I  can't  understand  him  or  myself,"  she  went  on. 
"All  I  know  is  that  when  he  said  that  my  hat  hid  my 
eyes  from  him  and  wanted  to  lift  it  off,  I  wasn't  angry  as 
I  ought  to  have  been.  I  was  a  little  flattered,  I  suppose, 
and  I — I  didn't  want  to  be  suspicious  or  harsh,  or —  Oh, 
I  don't  know.  He  was  terribly  gentle,  and  I  didn't  resist 
him.  And  then  I  was — ^well,  dazed.  I  couldn't  quite  be- 
lieve that  he  wa?  making  love  to  me,  and  yet  it  seemed  so. 

"I  nearly  stepped  off  the  box,  and  he  caught  me,  and 
I  thanked  him,  and  he  didn't  let  me  go  at  once,  and  I  was 
going  to  step  down,  because  his  arms  were  still  around  me. 

"And  then — ^then  he  closed  his  arms  so  tight  I  couldn't 
breathe,  and  caressed  my  hair,  and  I  couldn't  beHeve  what 
was  happening  till  I  felt  his  Ups  on  mine.  Then  at  last 
I  was  mad — fighting  mad.  I  tried  to  protest,  but  his  lips 
smothered  me  and  his  fingers  were  tearing  at  my  hair.  I 
grew  fearfully  angry  and  I  began  to  beat  him  with  my 
fists.  His  head  fell  back,  but  he  climg  to  my  hair  and  I 
struck  and  pushed  and  fell,  and  he  struck  the  chimney 

583 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

and  dragged  me  after  him,  and  there  was  an  awful  clatter, 
and  the  next  thing  I  knew  I  was  on  my  hands  and  knees 
and  tr^dng  to  tear  myself  free.  He  didn't  move  or  speak 
or  groan  even.  And  his  hands  grew  cold  while  I  tried 
to  open  his  fingers.  And  I  couldn't  get  free  till  I  cut  my 
hair  with  his  knife.     If  only  I  had  died  instead  of  him!" 

She  was  crying  again.  Her  poor  eyes  seemed  still  to 
find  tears.  But  Worthing  was  magically  elated  with  the 
fierce  infernal  joy  that  is  exalted  upon  horror. 

The  wretch  who  had  tried  to  despoil  this  girl's  inno- 
cence was  struck  down.  She  had  fought  and  hated  him, 
but  she  had  not  killed  him.  He  had  died  of  his  own  sac- 
rilege, sent  reeHng  to  earth  as  one  who  had  touched  the 
Ark  of  the  Covenant. 

Worthing  did  not  credit  him  with  any  of  the  self- 
resistance  that  had  broken  his  brain  as  •mth  two  twisting 
hands.  Worthing  saw  only  the  infamous  desire  that 
btuTied  itself  out  in  the  excess  of  its  own  flame.  That 
was  enough  for  him.  He  was  not  Merithew's  judge;  he 
was  an  attorney  fighting  justice  for  mercy's  sake.  If  he 
felt  any  regret  it  was  that  Mimel  had  not  dealt  Merithew 
the  fatal  blow,  instead  of  accidentally  throwing  him 
against  a  chimney.  But  he  could  see  that  the  news  he 
brought  her  had  fiUed  her  with  divine  comfort. 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  ruthlessly.  She  belonged  to 
him  now.  He  had  rescued  her.  He  was  very  proud  of 
himself. 

She  stared  at  him.  "You  don't  despise  me?  You 
don't  abhor  me?"  she  whimpered. 

* '  I  adore  you !"  he  groaned.  ' '  You  poor  little  bUnd,  lost, 
lonesome,  poverty-stricken  waif  of  the  world!" 

It  was  just  the  sort  of  thing  she  longed  for  more  than 
anything  else  on  earth. 

As  is  usual  with  lovers,  they  thought  that  all  the  prob- 
lems of  life  had  been  solved. 

They  sat  there  thinking  so,  so  blindly  that  they  did 

584 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

not  heed  Kane,  who  appeared  at  the  door,  stared,  gaped, 
and  vanished.  They  did  not  see  that  Happy  Hanigan 
had  wakened,  wondered  where  he  was,  slowly  remembered, 
peered  over  the  ledge  of  the  divan,  stared  at  the  incredible 
couple,  decided  he  was  dreaming,  and  fallen  asleep  again 
with  a  Uttle  moan  of  luxury. 

It  was  that  that  changed  the  turtle-doves  back  to  hu- 
man beings  in  a  troublefiil  world. 

Muriel  broke  from  Worthing's  clasp  and  ran  to  Happy, 
saw  how  he  snuggled  in  the  velvet  and  silken  cushions, 
heard  a  clock  tinkle  midnight,  and  said: 

"It's  too  late  to  take  him  home.  He  shall  sleep  here. 
Unless  his  mother  will  worry." 

*'  She  doesn't  expect  him.  I  told  her  I'd  keep  him  under 
my  care  for  a  few  days.  I  don't  want  him  to  go  back  to 
Batavia  Street." 

"He  sha'n't  go  back!  He  shall  never  go  back  there  to 
live  and  sell  papers.  He  shall  be  like  my  little  brother,  for 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  him  I  should  never  have  met  you." 

At  last  her  good  deed  had  shown  some  good  result. 

She  pressed  a  button  in  the  wall,  and  when  sleepy-eyed 
Kane  appeared,  she  said: 

"  Master  Hanigan  is  spending  the  night  here.  Put  him 
in  the  red  room.     He  Ukes  red,  I  imagine." 

Kane  bowed,  picked  up  the  drowsily  protesting  boy, 
and  toted  him  up-stairs,  took  off  his  shoes,  valeted  him 
out  of  his  clothes  and  into  a  pair  of  pajamas  big  enough 
for  three  of  him.  And  Happy  slept  in  a  bed  where  an 
earl,  two  princesses,  and  any  nimiber  of  aristocrats  had 
slept — successively. 

When  they  were  alone  again,  Worthing  and  Muriel  sat 
in  the  wordless  communion  of  two  long- wedded  souls. 
They  had  enough  to  meditate  upon.  By  and  by  Muriel 
began  to  talk  again,  to  muse  aloud  over  the  paradox  that 
she  had  fallen  into  the  pit  of  evil  while  on  a  mission  of 
good.  And  this  reminded  her  of  bow  Merithew  had 
19  58s 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

ridiculed  her  ambitions  to  relieve  human  misery.  She 
told  Worthing  what  he  had  said,  and  she  asked  him  timid- 
ly if  he,  too,  believed  in  the  vanity  of  charity. 

"No,  no!"  Worthing  answered,  with  unusual  fervor  for 
him.  "That's  the  old  lie:  because  you  can't  save  all, 
save  none ;  because  you  can't  succeed  perfectly,  don't  try. 
But  half  a  loaf  is  mighty  good  bread.  Look  at  us  doctors. 
In  spite  of  all  we  can  do,  people  get  sick  and  die.  But  we 
go  on  groping,  and  we  do  get  somewhere.  We  don't  have 
the  plagues  we  once  had.  We  don't  have  the  pain  we  once 
had.     More  people  live  and  live  longer  and  live  better. 

"It's  the  same  way  with  human  welfare.  We  don't  have 
the  slavery  we  once  had.  We  don't  have  the  poverty  and 
the  starvation  that  used  to  be  expected  to  carry  off  droves 
every  winter.  We  don't  have  the  cruel  punishment  of  the 
debtors  and  the  insane  and  the  criminals.  Nearly  every- 
body can  read  and  write.  The  children  are  protected,  and 
the  women  are  not  treated  like  children.  The  world  has 
grown  better  and  better.  It  will  never  be  altogether  well 
with  the  world,  but  we  can  make  it  better,  and  we  must. 

"Life  seems  to  me  to  be  a  kind  of  stairway — a  Jacob's 
Ladder  lost  in  the  clouds.  We're  all  cripples  more  or 
less,  but  we've  got  to  climb  as  far  as  we  can.  If  we  slip 
back,  we  must  start  up  again.  And  we  ought  to  keep  at 
it,  laughing,  like  Happy  Hanigan.  Look  what  you've 
done  '  for  him !  and  for  the  Angelillo  family,  and  the 
Balinskys.  Think  how  many  more  there  are  in  need  of 
you.  They're  waiting  for  you  now,  everywhere,  crowds 
of  them,  with  their  hands  out  to  you.  They  need  yotur 
sweetness  and  your  beauty  and  your  qmck,  foolish  tears. 

"Oh,  there's  work  enough  for  you,  Muriel.  And  you 
mustn't  let  anything  prevent  you  from  doing  it  the  best 
you  can.  You're  tired  and  afraid  and  bewildered  now. 
You're  like  a  hard-working  laboring-woman  who  has  come 
home  at  night  bruised  and  fagged  and  discouraged.  But 
there's  always  to-morrow,  and  your  job  will  be  waiting  for 
you  in  the  morning;  and  you'll  find  your  strength  waiting 

586 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

for  you,  too.  You've  had  a  hard  day  of  it,  but  you've 
done  no  wrong.  The  only  crime  you  could  commit  would 
be  to  let  your  own  misfortunes  blind  you  to  other  people's." 

He  filled  her  heart  with  new  blood,  her  soul  with  the 
redeeming  religion  of  human  service.  She  felt  a  strange 
new  need  of  him  and  a  gratitude  that  was  like  an  idolatry. 
She  felt  that  he  would  protect  her  from  all  the  perils  of 
the  world.  And  so  great  was  her  contentment  that  she 
grew  profoundly  drowsed  with  that  perfect  slumber  which 
steals  upon  a  soul  at  prayer. 

Muriel  yawned  in  Worthing's  face.  But  it  was  a  gor- 
geous yawn. 

Worthing  took  it  for  the  high  compliment  that  it  was, 
and  smiled  and  said:  "You  are  sound  asleep  already.  Go 
to  bed  and  forget  everything  till  to-morrow.  May  I  come 
back  to  see  you  to-morrow  afternoon?" 

"To-morrow  morning,  please!"  she  pleaded.  She  took 
him  in  her  arms  and  said,  "I  love  you,"  and  kissed  him. 
He  did  not  faU  to  repay  her  in  kind  with  usury.  His 
strong  arms  were  like  a  landlocked  harbor  where  at  last 
her  storm -worn  sotd  could  drop  anchor  and  lower  sail. 
He  loved  her  well  enough  to  bid  her  good  night  and  go. 
She  watched  him  to  the  door  and  wafted  him  another  kiss, 
and  then  climbed  sleepily  the  long  white  stairway. 

She  sent  the  drowsy  maid  away  and  went  to  her  window 
and  leaned  out  to  wave  good  night  again  to  the  young 
man  on  the  lonely  Avenue. 

He  had  not  stepped  into  any  limousine  or  ridden  off 
on  a  charger.  He  was  staring  back  at  the  palace  in  amaze- 
ment, wondering  by  what  bewitching  miracle  he  had  cap- 
tured the  heart  of  the  princess  there.  He  waved  to  her 
till  a  poUceman  came  by  and  restored  the  ballade  to  prose. 

Then  he  walked  rapidly  toward  the  boarding-house 
where  he  occupied  one  very  modest  single  room.  His 
income  was  hardly  greater  than  Happy  Hanigan's,  and 
he  was  betrothed  to  a  princess.  And  she  was  yet  to  be 
saved  from  the  mobs  of  publicity  and  police. 


CHAPTER  LXX 

THE  next  morning  brought  back  the  old  ugly  facts 
and  new  ugly  facts.  Perry  Merithew's  serial  epitaph 
was  stni  writ  large  in  the  head-lines. 

The  poUce  had  captured  two  fugitives,  both  of  them 
suspect.  Aphra  Shaler  had  been  apprehended  in  the 
mid-West,  and  Mrs.  "Red  Ida"  Ganley  in  darkest  New 
Jersey. 

When  Worthing  reached  Muriel's  home  he  found  her 
in  a  distressful  mood.     He  could  not  comfort  her. 

The  bUss  of  being  saved  from  believing  herself  guilty 
of  Merithew's  death  was  all  but  forgotten  in  these  new 
situations  that  put  her  conscience  on  the  rack. 

"What  am  I  to  do  now?"  she  wailed.  "Those  two  poor 
women  are  disgraced  and  arrested.  Suppose  the  coroner 
refuses  to  accept  your  expert's  theory  of  apoplexy  or 
holds  them  both  under  charges  of  robbery?" 

"They  both  belong  in  jail,  anyway,"  Worthing  growled. 

"But  not  for  this  thing.  It  seems  m^ore  brutal  to 
punish  criminals  unjustly  than  anybody  else.  What  am 
I  to  do?" 

"  Don't  worry  about  them.     They'll  have  alibis  galore." 

"But  they  may  not  be  believed.  I  ought  to  do  some- 
thing.    But  what?" 

Worthing  knit  his  brows  awhile  before  he  spoke.  "Of 
course  the  one  right  thing  to  do  is  the  thing  nobody  does : 
teU  the  whole  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  and  trust 
the  people.  The  people  mean  well;  they  are  merciful 
when  they  are  not  fooled  with.  That's  why  a  jury  trial 
gives  the  defendant  the  most  hope.     People  understand 

$88 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

people,  and  the  majority  has  a  big,  tender  heart,  when 
it  is  given  the  chance  to  show  it. 

"If  you  came  out  and  told  just  what  happened,  what 
could  they  do?  What  would  they  do?  They'd  say, 
'The  poor  girl  has  suffered  enough  already.'  You  would 
be  freed  by  any  jury." 

The  sermon  did  not  convert  Muriel  in  any  respect. 
She  said:  "I  might  be  freed  by  a  jury  after  a  horrible, 
unspeakable  trial,  but  I  shouldn't  be  freed  by  the  news- 
papers. My  name  would  be  printed  in  big  letters  all  over 
the  world.  And  everybody  would  sneer  at  me.  I'd  be 
branded  for  life.  Mrs.  Merithew  would  hound  me  out 
of  the  country.  If  I  had  children  ever,  my  name  would 
shame  them.     Nobody  would  marry  me,  anj^way." 

"I'd  marry  you,  anyway." 

"Oh,  you!  You're  merely  taking  pity  on  me.  But 
I've  got  to  take  pity  on  my  poor  father  and  mother.  All 
their  money  wouldn't  buy  off  one  head-line.  All  their 
money  wouldn't  save  my  name.  It's  the  newspapers, 
the  newspapers  that  make  life  a  curse  to-day.  You  may 
advise  me  to  trust  the  people.  But  you  can't  advise  me 
to  trust  the  papers,  can  you — can  you?" 

"No,  I  can't,"  he  sighed.  The  problem  was  beyond 
him.  Even  his  moonflower  of  romance  had  withered 
before  the  morning  sun.  The  thought  of  marrying  this 
daughter  of  plutocracy  had  grown  ridiculous  under  the 
full  light.  He  could  hardly  support  himself.  How  could 
he  support  a  creature  of  such  royal  necessities  as  she? 

He  tried  to  plan  some  discreet  way  for  intervening  in 
behalf  of  Aphra  Shaler  and  Red  Ida,  but  every  scheme 
imperiled  the  concealment  of  Miuiel's  name.  Wlien  his 
own  wits  proved  unequal  to  the  task,  he  suggested  that 
Muriel  might  tell  her  father  and  enlist  his  masterful  in- 
tellect and  his  army  of  lawyers,  diplomats,  and  financiers. 

But  she  revolted  at  the  thought.  She  had  told  her 
story  to  Ivlaryla  and  to  Worthing.  The  secret  had  been 
relieved.     There   v/as    no    comfort    in   repetition.     The 

589 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

thought  of  telling  her  father  was  nausea.  She  frantically 
refused.  She  and  Worthing  spent  the  day  and  the  eve- 
ning in  discussing  and  discarding  other  plans. 

Their  pathway  was  through  a  plague  of  locusts.  Every 
step  stirred  up  a  cloud  of  them. 

Even  Happy  Hanigan  was  something  of  a  grasshopper 
in  his  restless  curiosity.  Muriel  sent  him  out  at  last  for 
a  motor-ride — a  long  one.  She  told  the  chauffeur,  Pamy, 
to  take  him  down  to  Batavia  Street  and  get  his  mother 
and  spin  them  both  to  Coney  Island.  She  told  Happy 
to  break  the  news  to  his  mother  as  gently  as  he  coiild 
that  he  was  not  to  go  back  to  selling  newspapers  in  the 
street,  but  he  was  to  be  sent  to  a  private  school  in  the 
country,  and  his  father  and  mother  were  to  have  work 
and  a  home  on  the  Schuyler  country  place. 

When  Happy  was  gone  Muriel  and  Worthing  attempted 
to  resume  their  own  mutual  courtship,  but  they  were  too 
harrowed  and  too  mutually  harrowing  to  recapture  that 
first  careless  rapture. 

The  next  afternoon's  Gazette  announced  another  scoop. 
Perry  Merithew's  quondam  friend,  the  girl  to  whom  he 
gave  the  amethyst-headed  hat-pin,  Maryla  Sokalska,  had 
been  run  down  by  the  Gazette  reporter,  and  was  now  behind 
the  bars. 

In  a  parallel  colimm,  with  lesser  head-lines,  was  the  first 
statement  of  the  new  theory  that  Perry  Merithew  had 
died  of  a  cerebral  hemorrhage.  The  Gazette  railed  at  the 
far-fetched  ruse,  and  reviled  the  police,  quoting  an  imag- 
inary man  of  prominence  (who  was  really  Hallard  inter- 
viewing himself): 

"Expert  testimony  has  become  a  byword  of  contra- 
dictory merchandise;  it  is  now  the  desperate  resort  of  the 
incompetent  boneheads  disguised  as  detectives  and  going 
to  a  costume  party  in  the  fancy  dress  of  policemen. 
What  if  Merithew  did  die  of  apoplexy  before  he  was  killed 
with  a  blow?    That  doesn't  maJce  the  mystery  any  less. 

590 


Her  knees  weakened  and  she  sat  do\^ 


JAMES   acx^aKOv  tkaq: 
3n  the  step  and  put  out  her  arms. 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

It  makes  it  greater.  What  brought  on  the  apoplexy? 
Who  was  the  woman?  Why  don't  the  police  produce  her 
and  ask  her  why  she  cracked  his  skull  when  he  was  already 
dead?  And  how  did  she  do  it  when  he  had  her  by  the 
hair?  How  long  did  he  Hve  after  she  hit  him?  Why 
didn't  she  send  some  one  to  his  aid?  Did  he  have  hold 
of  her  hair  before  she  struck  him?  Or  did  she  think  he 
was  dead  and  bend  over  to  rob  him?  And  then  did  he 
grab  her  by  the  hair  and  hold  on  to  her?  How  did  she 
cut  herself  loose  and  where  did  she  go?  Why  was  it 
nobody  saw  her?  Did  she  spend  the  night  in  the  tene- 
ment ?  Or  did  she  make  a  get-away  through  the  crowded 
streets?  The  story  of  apoplexy  only  makes  it  more  of  a 
mystery.  The  poHce  are  hired  to  solve  mysteries,  not  to 
pile  them  up.  If  it  were  not  for  the  newspapers  the  pub- 
lic would  have  no  protection  at  all.  The  Gazette's  activity 
has  been  the  one  bright  spot  in  this  dark  chapter.  It  has 
not  only  made  its  rivals  look  cheap,  but  has  made  a 
shake-up  in  the  police  department  inevitable." 

Muriel  read  this  tirade  with  a  new  dismay.  "That's 
what  is  waiting  for  me,"  she  said  to  the  distracted 
Worthing.  "That's  the  mercy  I  would  get  from  the 
newspapers.  You  ask  me  to  trust  the  people.  Well, 
they  are  the  people.  Listen  to  the  wolves  barking  and 
howling  and  tearing  one  another  to  pieces!  The  news- 
papers and  the  police  are  fighting  each  other,  but  once 
they  found  me,  how  they  would  thirst  for  my  blood!" 

Then  her  anger  rose.  "Where's  the  justice  or  the 
mercy  of  it?  I  meant  no  harm.  I  went  into  that  place 
to  bring  a  girl  back  into  her  home,  and  now  the  girl  her- 
self is  arrested  for  murder  of  a  man.  She's  a  widow  be- 
fore she  is  a  wife,  and  she  has  an  orphan  child,  and  she's 
in  jail.  And  the  papers  aren't  satisfied  with  that.  They 
won't  let  poor  Mr.  Merithew  rest  in  his  grave.  They 
won't  let  him  die.  They've  got  to  have  him  killed,  so 
that  they  can  kill  some  woman.  It's  human  sacaifice 
they're  after  still. 

S9S 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

"I'm  not  going  to  let  them  get  me  there.  I'll  kill 
myself  first.  I'll  leave  a  note  confessing  what  I  have  to 
confess,  so  that  poor  Maryla  won't  have  to  suffer  any 
more.  Then  I'll  get  rid  of  myself.  And  if  you  love  me 
you'll  make  it  easy  for  me.  You  must  know  some  pain- 
less way  that  won't  disfigure  me.  If  you  love  me  you'll 
help  me  to  escape  from  tliis  hateful  world." 

It  was  not  eas}^  for  Worthing  to  bear  the  sight  of  her 
in  such  tortures ;  it  was  not  easy  for  him  to  coax  her  back 
to  bravery  and  wisdom. 

The  most  he  could  do  was  to  persuade  her  to  defer  her 
self-immolation  until  he  had  seen  Maryla. 

He  went  to  the  Tombs  and  got  himself  admitted  to 
Maryla's  cell  on  the  pretext  of  being  her  physician.  He 
had  to  wait  his  turn,  for  she  was  holding  a  reception.  Her 
father  and  mother  and  her  sister  and  the  boarder  Pasinsky 
and  her  friends  the  Balinskys  were  there;  also  a  little 
East  Side  lawyer  looking  for  advertisement  and  a  chance 
to  air  his  eloquence  and  his  wiles. 

When  Worthing  reached  Maryla  at  last  he  whispered 
to  her  to  calm  her  that  he  came  from  Muriel,  who  was 
determined  to  save  her  from  danger  at  any  cost,  even 
at  the  cost  of  proclaiming  herself. 

This  threw  Maryla  into  a  panic,  and  she  implored 
Worthing  to  compel  IMuriel  to  silence.  She  explained 
her  own  plan,  her  little  rabbit  device  for  fooling  the 
hounds.     She  took  great  pride  in  it. 

She  took  great  pride  also  in  announcing  that  her  father 
had  recalled  her  from  the  death  he  had  assigned  her  to, 
and  had  taken  her  into  his  arms,  and  had  wept  till  her 
baby  grabbed  him  by  the  beard  like  what  Maryla  done 
when  she  was  a  baby.  And  then  he  laughed  so  loud  like 
she  had  never  hoid  him,  and  he  kissed  that  baby  and  said 
she  was  his  grandbaby  already. 

And  Pasinsky  had  begged  her  to  marry  him,  and  may- 
be she  might  yet  when  she  got  out  once.     Anyway,  she 

596 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

gave  him  a  promise  on  it  so  he  should  stop  all  the  time 
crying. 

And  all  these  honors  she  had  received  without  confess- 
ing that  she  was  innocent  of  Merithew's  death. 

Before  Worthing  left  her  she  had  another  caller,  a 
lawyer  who  showed  her  a  cablegram  from  Paris;  it  was 
from  Dutilh,  who  was  trying  to  rescue  from  the  stampede 
of  war's  alarms  the  best  models  of  the  fashion-creators 
before  the  hasty  mobiHzaticns  threw  them  into  the  imiform 
of  soldiers  and  marched  them  off  to  the  frontiers  of  em- 
battled France. 

The  cable  letter  read: 

Paris  herald  says  my  model  maryla  arrested  merithew  case 
for  god's  sake  get  her  out  give  her  my  love.  Dutilh. 

Worthing  breathed  freelier  and  put  the  whole  case  in 
the  hands  of  this  lawyer.  To  him  he  could  mention  the 
name  of  Miss  Schuyler  in  confidence  as  a  friend  of  Maryla's 
who  felt  responsible  for  her  safety,  since  she  had  brought 
her  to  Dutilh's  notice  and  imwittingly  to  Merithew's. 

Maryla  told  Dutilh's  lawyer  to  go  away  and  stay  away 
until  he  was  sent  for.  She  intended  to  keep  the  police 
engaged  till  the  last  moment.  But  her  true  picture  was 
published  in  the  papers,  and  the  venerable  Sister  Superior 
saw  it  and  hastened  to  her  in  her  cell,  and  identified  her 
and  her  child,  and  proved  that  she  had  spent  that  fatal 
night,  and  the  other  nights  till  her  arrest,  in  the  ward 
among  the  other  mothers  with  their  babies  at  breast. 

Nobody  questioned  such  testimony,  and  Maryla  was 
driven  out  of  jail.  In  due  time  she  married  Henryk 
Pasinsky,  and  they  started  life  on  a  mysterious  dowry  of 
remarkable  magnificence. 

When  little  "Red  Ida"  Ganley  was  starved  out  and 
nabbed  by  a  detective,  she  faced  the  police  as  »  game 
little  cat  faces  a  pack  of  bulldogs.  They  have  her  at 
their  mercy,  but  they  are  sure  to  get  their  noses  scratched 

59;^ 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Well,  boys,  go  to  it,"  she  said.  "You're  goin'  to 
gimme  the  thoid  degree,  I  suppose.  Gimme  a  cig'ret 
foist,  will  you?  'At's  the  boy.  Now  begin  to  commence. 
What  am  I  wanted  for?" 

"The  murder  of  Perry  Merithew." 

"Oh,  rully?  Great!  You  never  railroaded  me  for 
no  swell  crime  before.  Sorry,  boys,  but  I  never  sor  that 
gempmun." 

"Ah,  none  of  that,  Ida,"  one  of  the  plain-clothes  men 
broke  in.     "I  seen  you  myself  dancin'  with  him." 

"Oh,  hello,  Cutie!  Did  you?  Is  that  so?  Well,  a  lady 
like  me  who's  a  dancer  by  perfession  has  gotta  dance 
with  all  kinds  of  guys.  It's  gettin'  to  be  too  promiscu- 
rous  for  me." 

They  laughed  at  her  lovingly,  but  they  shook  their  heads. 

"I  guess  you  and  that  coke-consumin'  partner  of  yours 
have  gotta  stand  trile,"  the  chief  inquisitor  said.  "It 
happened  right  in  your  little  districk,  too." 

Ida  gave  her  alibi  blushingly:  on  the  night  of  Meri- 
thew's  death  she  had  been  arrested  for  picking  a  pocket 
in  Yonkers  during  the  evening  crush  in  Getty  Square. 
She  had  gone  there  to  dance,  and  lost  her  way.  She  had 
inquired  it  of  a  kind  old  gent  with  a  watch-chain  big 
enough  for  a  watch-dog.  She  just  had  to  take  a  swipe  at 
it.  He  had  caught  her  in  the  act  and  called  a  policeman. 
She  had  been  locked  up  for  the  night,  and  released  the 
next  day  because  the  nice  old  gent  had  believed  her 
promises  of  reform  and  refused  to  appear  against  her. 
She  admitted  with  deep  humiliation  that  she  had  not  been 
reco'nized  by  the  copper  or  by  the  beak  on  the  bench. 

"I  tell  you  nobody's  famous  far  from  home." 

"But  why  did  you  beat  it  and  hide  in  New  Jersey?'* 

"I  was  ashamed  to  be  caught  in  Yonkers.  The  papers 
said  you  was  after  me  for  this  job.  And  I  didn't  want 
to  have  to  use  no  bimi  alibi  like  Yonkers  for  fear  you'd 
gimme  the  laugh.  I  guess  I'd  rather  you  spnmg  me  now 
than  put  it  in  the  paper  like  I  told  you." 

598 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

They  telephoned  the  Yonkers  headquarters  and  learned 
that  an  innocent-looking  frail  little  red-headed  girl  had 
indeed  been  arrested  for  lifting  a  watch,  and  had  been 
released,  since  it  was  her  first  offense. 

So  they  laughed  Red  Ida  out  of  jeopardy. 

Aphra  Shaler  had  hidden  herself  in  a  smallish  city  in 
the  Middle  West,  but  her  air  of  helplessness  had  attracted 
the  benevolence  of  two  or  three  kind  old  gentlemen,  and 
they  had  fallen  by  the  ears  like  jealous  Samaritans. .  The 
local  police  force  had  cast  its  eye  on  Aphra  and  recognized 
her  likeness  to  the  face  on  the  placards  sent  out  by  the 
New  York  police  with  the  words  "Wanted"  and  "Re- 
ward" in  large  black  type.  They  notified  the  New  York 
police.     A  detective  was  sent  out  to  bring  her  in. 

He  nearly  lost  Aphra  en  route,  for  in  the  drawing-room 
of  the  sleeper  she  fascinated  him  with  that  superhuman 
naivete  which  had  fooled  even  Perry  Merithew. 

She  told  how  the  handsome  devil  had  lured  her  from 
her  home  in  the  most  innocent  and  sweetest  of  villages; 
how  he  had  promised  her  marriage,  and  she  had  learned 
too  late  that  he  was  wed  to  Another;  of  how  he  had 
blinded  her  with  promises  to  marry  her  as  soon  as  he  could 
unmarry  himself  from  the  cold  and  indiffer'nt  sussiety 
woman  he  was  bound  to. 

"And  so  he  kept  me  a  prisoner.  And  then  he  threw 
me  overboard  for  somebody  else  when  I  was  no  longer  of 
use  to  him.  And  as  if  he  hadn't  done  enough  to  ruin  my 
life,  he  goes  and  gets  himself  kiUed  in  the  slimis  where, 
Heaven  knows,  anybody  who  knew  me  could  have  told 
the  police  I  would  never  have  went — gone! 

"And  all  I  have  to  show  for  my  ruined  life  is  a  few 
old-fashioned  clothes  and  a  jewel  or  two.  I  wonder  did 
he  leave  me  anything  in  his  wiU?  Oh,  I  tell  you,  John" 
— ^by  this  time  she  was  caUing  the  detective  by  his  in- 
dividual as  well  as  generic  name  of  John — "oh,  I  tell  you, 
John,  it's  a  cruel  world,  and  it's  always  the  woman  gets 
it.     The  woman  pays  and  pays,"  etc. 

599 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

If  the  journey  had  been  an  hour  longer  the  detective 
would  probably  have  offered  to  marry  her  himself  and 
take  flight  with  her  to  some  country  where  innocence 
was  respected.     But  New  York  was  reached  in  time. 

Aphra  submitted  a  perfect  alibi,  although  a  somewhat 
painful  one  to  the  fat  gentleman  whom  she  had  aban- 
doned on  the  beach  for  Merry  Perry.  She  had  regained 
him  that  evening  in  time  to  provide  her  with  the  dinner 
the  hgndsome  devil  of  a  Merithew  had  refused  her. 

Her  affidavit  and  his  released  her,  but  they  .afterward 
served  his  wife  as  perfect  evidence  in  a  divorce  suit.  And 
now  Aphra  had  matriculated  in  the  co-respondent's  school 
and  her  future  was  full  of  assurance. 

Almost  her  first  visitor  after  her  release  was  the  re- 
porter Hallard.  Almost  her  first  question  was,  "Did 
you  look  up  that  Schuyler  girl,  like  I  told  you  to?" 

Hallard  rewarded  her  with  a  harsh  rebuke,  but  when 
he  left  her  he  began  to  wonder  how  he  could  get  near 
that  closely  guarded,  unapproachable,  irreproachable 
princess.  He  hated  himself  for  giving  a  thought  to  such 
suspicion,  but  who  else  was  left  to  suspect  ?  And  what  an 
epochal  sensation  it  would  be  if  the  Gazette  could  capture 
such  a  prize ! 

He  resolved  to  set  out  on  the  secret  hunt  the  next 
morning. 


CHAPTER  LXXI 

THE  next  morning  the  war  broke  forth  in  Europe 
and  all  the  world  quaked  with  conflict. 

The  cataclysm  that  threw  civilization  into  chaos  di- 
verted attention  from  one  anxious  girl,  and  drove  the  name 
of  Perry  Merithew  from  the  front  page,  or  any  page. 
Even  the  police  had  other  problems  tumbled  upon  them 
in  such  masses  that  they  put  aside  the  case. 

When  millions  were  marching  against  millions  to  be 
shot,  mangled,  starved,  what  did  it  matter  that  a  certaia 
man  had  been  found  on  a  roof  with  the  hair  of  an  uncer- 
tain woman  in  his  hands?  The  red  hands  of  war  had 
civilization  by  the  hair. 

America,  just  emerging  from  prolonged  hard  times,, 
found  itself  thrown  back  into  financial  confusion,  yet  with 
all  the  world  turning  toward  it  as  the  altar  of  peace  and 
plenty.  Thousands  of  Americans  abroad  were  crying, 
"Send  us  ships  and  money  and  food  and  get  us  home!" 
Myriads  of  foreigners  gathering  in  New  York  were  clam- 
oring to  get  back  to  their  fatherlands,  reservists  of  the 
various  nations  threatening  to  start  little  wars  of  their 
own,  but  in  still  graver  danger  of  starving. 

From  Belgiimi,  Poland,  and  all  the  nations  the  cries 
came  jangling,  "  Send  us  food;  send  us  clothes,  medicines, 
money,  guns,  powder,  motors,  horses,  nurses,  doctors." 

Everything  merely  national,  local,  individual,  lost  im- 
portance. The  children  in  the  streets  were  talking  cosmic 
gossip.  The  papers,  lacking  space  for  ordinary  news,  dis- 
missed their  mere  reporters  by  the  score.  Hallard  wen*" 
20  601 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

overboard  with  the  rest  and  joined  the  tremendous  army 
of  the  unemployed. 

As  always  happens  when  the  basest  qualities  of  man 
flourished,  the  purest  and  the  noblest  qualities  also  arose 
to  keep  the  old-time  balance  of  good  and  bad. 

If  there  never  was  so  futile,  so  destructive,  so  mad  a 
war,  neither  was  there  ever  so  beautiful,  so  heroic,  so 
enormous  a  charity.  The  oceans  that  saw  the  dread- 
noughts, and  the  airships,  and  the  submarines,  saw  also 
the  fleets  of  pity,  the  swan-ships  carrying  the  grails  of 
rescue. 

And  now  Muriel  Schuyler  saw  her  opportunity.  She 
could  not  rest  content  with  subscribing  money  and  work- 
ing up  festivals,  and  knitting  mufflers,  and  feeding  hungry 
reservists  stranded  in  town.  She  wotdd  take  a  ship  across 
to  the  aid  of  the  women  of  Europe, 

When  she  told  Worthing  he  worshiped  her  for  the 
inspiration  and  for  the  power.     He  ventured  to  protest: 

"You  can't  go  as  a  nurse  unless  I  go  as  a  surgeon." 

* '  That  was  my  idea, ' '  she  said.  ' '  You  shall  be  the  chief 
surgeon  of  my  crew  of  surgeons,  and  you  shall  be  paid 
at  last  as  you  deserve." 

"Who's  going  to  pay  me?"  he  asked,  a  bit  dubiously. 

"My  father,"  she  said,  without  a  doubt. 

"Glorious!    When  did  you  tell  him?" 

"To-morrow  morning." 

What  Muriel  might  have  done  if  she  had  been  free  of 
mind  and  heart,  she  was  the  more  impelled  to  do  now 
that  her  prayer  was  for  an  escape  from  the  peril  of  de- 
tection and  the  torment  of  inaction. 

She  went  to  her  father  and  said,  "Buy  me  a  ship  and  fit 
it  out  so  that  I  can  fill  it  with  nurses  and  doctors  and 
hurry  over  to  Europe  and  help  those  poor  soldiers!" 

Jacob  stared  at  her  as  if  she  were  demented.  "Why  on 
earth  should  you  risk  your  health  and  your  life  on  such 
a  mad  crusade?    Stay  home  where  you  are  safe." 

602 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

*'  But  I  am  not  safe  at  home.  I  am  afraid,  and  in  great 
danger." 

"Nonsense!" 

And  then  she  told  him.  It  was  black  news  to  him  and 
it  almost  crushed  him.  But  after  the  long  torture  of 
learning  the  truth  he  had  the  solace  of  believing  his  girl- 
child  innocent  of  guile;  he  had  the  comfort  of  saying  that 
he  had  warned  her  against  Merithew;  he  had  the  monop- 
olist's privilege  of  making  her  promise  not  to  tell  her 
mother. 

Partly  from  eagerness  to  have  her  out  of  the  reach  of 
any  accidental  stroke  of  detective  luck,  and  more  because 
of  the  precious  opportimity  that  gladdened  her,  he  granted 
her  her  ship. 

It  was  the  most  expensive  toy  he  had  ever  bought  her. 
He  told  her  it  would  have  to  be  her  Christmas  present 
and  her  birthday  present  both.  He  made  himself  re- 
sponsible for  the  salaries  of  the  physicians  and  the  nurses 
and  the  crew,  and  for  the  coal  and  provisions,  and  the 
bandages  and  instruments  and  all. 

He  had  assumed  the  burden  of  telling  her  mother  of  the 
scheme,  and  of  bearing  the  brunt  of  Susan's  indignation. 
Susan  poured  out  the  phials  and  the  magniims  of  her 
wrath  on  Jacob,  and  when  Muriel  appeared,  demurely, 
Susan  had  nothing  left  to  say  except  a  feeble: 

"You  couldn't  possibly  go  without  a  chaperon." 

"Why  not?" 

"You're  not  married." 

"If  I  were  married,  it  would  be  all  right?" 

"It  would  be  at  least  correct." 

"I  see." 

She  sauntered  away  and  telephoned  to  Dr.  Worthing 
and  explained  her  mother's  old-fashioned  scruples.  She 
had  called  him  from  a  compHcation  of  tasks  and  his  mind 
was  not  clear.  He  did  not  take  the  hint  at  all.  Mtiriel 
repeated  the  message: 

' '  My  mother  says  if  I  were  married  it  wotild  be  all  right." 

603 


EMPTY   POCKETS 

"Yes,  so  you  said.  That  makes  it  rather  awkward, 
doesn't  it?" 

"Does  it?    I  thought  it  made  it  rather  simple." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"You've  been  helping  yourself  to  my  young  affections 
so  freely  recently  that  I  had  an  idea  you  were  plamiing 
to  marry  me  yourself.  But,  of  course,  if  you  were  merely 
philandering,  good-by !' ' 

"Oh,  good  Lord,  waitj  Muriel,  honey,  darling,  name 
the  day,  the  hour,  the  minute!" 

"Is  this  afternoon  at  three  too  soon?" 

"How  can  I  wait  so  long?" 

"Can  I  trust  you  to  get  the  license  and  the  ring?  If 
I  provide  a  parson?" 

"Yes,  yes!" 

"Then  the  wedding  will  be  at  our  home  at  three.  Re- 
member.    Better  write  down  the  name  and  the  address." 

"  I'll  be  there,  God  bless  you!" 

"Thanks  ever  so  much.     Good-by." 

He  borrowed  some  money  of  Dr.  Eccleston  to  pay  for 
the  license,  the  ring,  and  the  necessary  taxicabs.  He 
promised  to  remit  the  loan  out  of  his  first  pay  as  chief 
surgeon  of  the  expedition.  He  reached  the  house  with 
the  document  and  the  implement  and  a  heart  all  ready  for 
the  sacrament. 

He  had  forgotten  to  robe  himself  as  a  bridgroom  and 
to  provide  a  better  man,  so  Muriel  drafted  Winnie  NicoUs, 
who  happened  to  be  calling.  He  found  it  a  most  dis- 
tasteful service,  but  he  bore  it  like  a  true  sportsman. 

The  bride  was  all  in  white.  It  pleased  her  to  wear  her 
new  imiform.  The  only  color  was  the  red  cross  on  the 
sleeve. 


CHAPTER  LXXII 

WHEN  the  ship  was  ready  to  go  it  was  visited  by  a 
platoon  of  reporters  and  photographers  and  moving- 
picture  men.  Among  them  was  Hallard,  who  had  been 
granted  the  assignment  as  a  special  commission  to  help 
out  his  poverty. 

Muriel  underwent  the  ordeal  of  the  syndicated  inter- 
view with  unaffected  meekness  and  pride,  and  to  the  great 
satisfaction  of  Hallard. 

She  was  one  of  the  few  women  of  the  wealthy  (or  of 
any)  group  that  Hallard  did  not  despise.  He  had  already 
decided  upon  two  or  three  fervent  epithets  in  her  praise 
as  his  Uttle  farewell  garland.  He  was  afraid  that  he  might 
forget  them,  but  he  did  not  want  to  be  caught  taking 
notes.  He  found  a  deserted  passageway  between  two 
deck  cabins  and  began  to  make  a  few  memoranda  stir- 
reptitiously. 

Muriel  and  Worthing,  released  from  the  interview,  were 
pacing  up  and  down  the  deck  of  their  private  ship  like 
Columbus  and  Isabella.  A  gust  of  wind  snatched  off 
Muriel's  official  cap,  and  she  fell  back  against  the  cabin 
and  waited,  laughing,  while  Worthing  ran  for  it  and  chased 
it  down  the  scuppers. 

The  brisk  air  tugged  and  clutched  at  her  oirls  till  it 
loosened  a  long  coil  of  hair  unlcnown  to  her,  and  fluttered 
it  against  the  wall  of  the  cabin. 

Hallard  stared.  He  could  see  no  marks  of  any  cutting, 
but  the  color  of  it  terrified  him.  It  would  be  easy  to  take 
out  his  knife  and  draw  the  blade  across  a  bit  of  it  for 
further  study.     It  would  be  safer  still  to  place  alongside 

605 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

it  the  little  strand  he  carried  in  his  pocketbook,  the  little 
strand  he  had  stolen  from  Perry  Merithew's  fingers. 

He  caught  out  his  pocketbook  and  lifted  the  copper 
threads  from  the  envelope. 

And  then  he  paused.  What  if  it  should  prove  true 
that  she  was  the  one?  What  good  could  it  do  him,  or 
Merithew,  or  the  world  to  be  assured  of  this?  What 
endless  VvTetchedness  it  would  involve!  What  beautiful 
deeds  it  would  frustrate! 

He  was  afraid. 

He  stared  at  the  fatal  silken  fibers  a  long  moment. 
Then  he  opened  his  hand  and  let  the  wind  take  them. 

Dr.  Worthing  came  back,  laughing,  wdth  the  nurse's 
cap,  and  Muriel,  laughing,  gathered  her  hair  together  and 
fastened  it  under  the  little  white  helmet  of  mercy. 

Hallard  slunk  away  in  a  mood  of  craven  shame;  he 
had  been  guUty  of  treachery  to  his  paper;  he  had  been 
false  to  the  sacred  priestcraft  of  publishing  the  secrets  of 
the  few  for  the  entertainment  of  the  many.  Dejected 
and  miserable,  he  trudged  across  the  gang-plank,  won- 
dering. 

And  the  ship  went  down  the  river  and  across  the  bay 
and  out  into  the  sea,  with  the  band  playing. 

On  an  evening  when  the  voyage  was  about  half  over, 
the  moon  being  imder  a  cloud,  Muriel  came  out  of  her 
cabin  alone.  She  carried  under  her  cloak  an  old  doll. 
She  opened  a  seam  in  the  skirt  of  it  with  the  scissors  hang- 
ing at  her  belt,  and  she  took  from  the  rags  inside  a  watch, 
and  a  pearl  pin,  and  a  diamond  ring.  These  she  dropped 
into  the  ocean  and  thought  a  little  prayer  over  them,  and 
sighed,  "Poor  Perry  Merithew!" 

She  took  the  doll  back  to  the  cabin,  and  had  just 
finished  sewing  up  the  seam  again  when  her  husband  came 
in  and  said,  as  he  kissed  her — ^not  having  seen  hei'  for 
almost  half  an  hour: 

"What's  all  that?" 

606 


EMPTY    POCKETS 

"Just  an  old  doll  of  mine,  honey."  She  had  meant  to 
spare  him  this  final  knowledge.  But  it  was  more  comfort- 
able to  keep  secrets  with  him  than  from  him,  and  she 
told  him  everything. 

"Why  didn't  you  drop  the  old  doU  overboard,  too?" 
he  asked;  and  fearing  that  it  would  be  only  a  harrowing 
reminder  of  experiences  better  forgot,  he  put  out  his 
hand  and  said,  "Let  me." 

But  she  shrank  away,  fondling  the  doll  with  a  mystic 
child-mother  look  he  had  never  seen  in  her  eyes. 

"Old  Suki's  been  too  faithftd  to  be  cast  away.  Be- 
sides, I  was  thinking  what  a  treasure  she  would  be  to 
some  poor  httle  doll-less  Belgian  kid,"  she  said. 

And  he  said,  "You're  always  thinking  of  children." 


THE  END 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 


Adventures  of  Jimmie  Dale,  The.     By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

After  House,  The.     By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Ailsa  Paige.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Alton  of  Somasco.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Amateur  Gentleman,  The.     By  JefFery  Farnol. 

Anna,  the  Adventuress.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Anne's  House  of  Dreams.     By  L.  M.  Montgomery. 

Arxjund  Old  Chester.     By  Margaret  Deland. 

Athaiie.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Auction  Block,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Aunt  Jane  of  Kentucky.     By  Eliza  C.  Hall. 

Awakening  of  Helena  Richie.    By  Margaret  Deland. 

Bab:  a  Sub-Deb.     By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Barrier,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Barbarians.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Bargain  True,  The.     By  Nalbro  Bartley. 

Bar  20.    By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Bar  20  Days.    By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Bars  of  Iron,  The.     By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Beasts  of  Tarzan,  The.    By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 

Beloved  Traitor,  The.     By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Beltane  the  Smith.     By  Jeffery  Farnol. 

Betrayal,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Beyond  the  Frontier.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Big  Timber.     By  Bertrand  W.  Sinclair. 

Black  Is  White.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Blind    Man's    Eyes,    The.      By   Wm.    MacHarg    and    Edwin 

Balmer. 
Bob,  Son  of  Battle.     By  Alfred  Ollivant. 
Boston  Blackie.    By  Jack  Boyle. 
Boy  with  Wings,  The.     By  Berta  Ruck. 
Brandon  of  the  Engineers.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 
Broad  Highway,  The.     By  Jeffery  Farnol. 
Brown  Study,  The.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Bruce  of  the  Circle  A.     By  Harold  Titus. 
Buck  Peters,  Ranchman.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 
Business  of  Life,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 


Cabbages  and  Kings.     By  O.  Henry. 

Cabin  Fever.     By  B.  M.  Bower. 

Calling  of  Dan  Matthews,  The.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Cape  Cod  Stories.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cap'n  Abe,  Storekeeper.     By  James  A.  Cooper. 

Cap'n  Dan's  Daughter.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cap'n  Eri.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cap'n  Jonah's  Fortune.    By  James  A.  Cooper. 

Cap'n  Warren's  Wards.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Chain  of  Evidence,  A.     By  Carolyn  Wells. 

Chief  Legatee,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Cinderella  Jane.     By  Marjorie  B.  Cooke. 

Cinema  Murder,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

City  of  Masks,  The.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Cleek  of  Scotland  Yard.     By  T.  W.  Hanshew. 

Cleek,  The  Man  of  Forty  Faces.     By  Thomas  W.  Hanshew. 

Cleek's  Government  Cases.     By  Thomas  W.  Hanshew. 

Clipped  Wings.     By  Rupert  Hughes. 

Clue,  The.     By  Carolyn  Wells. 

Clutch  of  Circumstance,  The.     By  Marjorie  Benton  Cooke, 

Coast  of  Adventure,  The.    By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Coming  of  Cassidy,  The.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Coming  of  the  Law,  The.     By  Chas.  A.  Seltzer. 

Conquest  of  Canaan,  The.     By  Booth  Tarkington. 

Conspirators,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Court  of  Inquiry,  A.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Cow  Puncher,  The.     By  Robert  J.  C.  Stead. 

Crimson  Gardenia,  The,  and  Other  Tales  of  Adventure.     By 

Rex  Beach. 
Cross  Currents.     By  Author  of  "Pollyanna." 
Cry  in  the  Wilderness,  A.    By  Mary  E.  Waller. 

Danger,  And  Other  Stories.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 
Dark  Hollow,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 
Dark  Star,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Daughter  Pays,  The.     By  Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds. 
Day  of  Days,  The.     By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Depot  Master,  The.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
/tesired  Woman,  The.    By  Will  N.  Harben. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 


Destroying  Angel,  The.    By  Louis  Jos.  Vance. 

Devil's  Own,  The.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Double  Traitor,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Empty  Pockets.     By  Rupert  Hughes. 
Eyes  of  the  Blind,  The.     By  Arthur  Somers  Roche. 
Eye  of  Dread,  The.     By  Payne  Erskine. 
Eyes  of  the  World,  The.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 
'Extricating  Obadiah.    By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Felix  O'Day.     By  F.  Hopkinson  Smith. 
54-40  or  Fight.     By  Emerson  Hough. 
Fighting  Chance,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Fighting  Shepherdess,  The.     By  Caroline  Lockhart. 
Financier,  The.     By  Theodore  Dreiser. 
Flame,  The.     By  Olive  Wadsley. 
Flamsted  Quarries.     By  Mary  E.  Wallar. 
Forfeit,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Four  Million,  The.    By  O.  Henry. 
Fruitful  Vine,  The.     By  Robert  Hichens. 
Further   Adventures   of   Jimmie   Dale,  The.     By   Frank    L. 
Packard. 

Girl  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  A.    By  Payne  Erskine. 

Girl  from  Keller's,  The.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Girl  Philippa,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Girls  at  His  Billet,  The.     By  Berta  Ruck. 

God's  Country  and  the  Woman.    By  James  Oliver  Curwood 

Going  Some.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Golden  Slipper,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Golden  Woman,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Greater  Love  Hath  No  Man.    By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Greyfriars  Bobby.    By  Eleanor  Atkinson. 

Gun  Brand,  The.     By  James  B.  Hendryx. 

Halcyone.    By  Elinor  Glyn. 

Hand  of  Fu-Manchu,  The.    By  Sax  Rohmer. 

Havoc.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Heart  of  the  Desert,  The.    By  Honore  Willsie. 

Heart  of  the  Hills,  The.    By  John  Fox,  Jr. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copj-right  Fiction 


Heart  of  the  Sunset.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Heart  of  Thunder  Mountain,  The.     By  Edfrid  A.  Bingham. 

Her  Weight  in  Gold.     By  Geo.  B.  McCutcheon. 

Hidden  Children,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Hidden  Spring,  The.     By  Clarence  B.  Kelland. 

Hillman,  The.     Bv  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Hills  of  Refuge,  the.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 

His  Official  Fiancee.     By  Berta  Ruck. 

Honor  of  the  Big  Snows.     By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 

Hopalong  Cassidy.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Hound  from  the  North,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

House  of  the  Whispering  Pines,  The.     By  Anna  Katharine 

Green. 
Hugh  Wynne,  Free  Quaker.     By  S.  Weir  Mitchell,  M.D. 

I  Conquered.     By  Harold  Titus. 

Illustrious  Prince,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

In  Another  Girl's  Shoes.     By  Berta  Ruck. 

Indifference  of  Juliet,  The.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Infelice.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Initials  Only.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Inner  Law,  The.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Innocent.     By  Marie  Corelli. 

Insidious  Dr.  Fu-Manchu,  The.    By  Sax  Rohmer. 

In  the  Brooding  Wild.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Intriguers,  The.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Iron  Trail,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Iron  Woman,  The.     By  Margaret  Deland. 

I  Spy.     By  Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln. 

Japonette.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Jean  of  the  Lazy   A.     By  B.  M.  Bower. 

Jeanne  of  the  Marshes.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Jennie  Gerhardt.     By  Theodore  Dreiser. 

Judgment  House,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Keener  of  the  Door,  The.    By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 
Keith  of  the  Border.     By  Randall  Parrish.  ^ 
Kent  Knowles:  Ouahaue.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Kinedom  of  the  Blind,  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 


King  Spruce.     By  Holman  Day. 

King's  Widow,  The.     By  Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds. 

Knave  of  Diamonds,  The.     By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Ladder  of  Swords.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Lady  Betty  Across  the  Water.     By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  William- 
son. 
Land-Girl's  Love  Story,  A.     By  Berta  Ruck. 
Landloper,  The.     By  Holman  Day. 
Land  of  Long  Ago,  The.     By  Eliza  Calvert  Hall. 
Land  of  Strong  Men,  The.     By  A.  M.  Chisholm. 
Last  Trail,  The.     By  Zane  Grey. 
Laugh  and  Live.     By  Douglas  Fairbanks. 
Laughing  Bill  Hyde.     By  Rex  Beach. 
Laughing  Girl,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Law  Breakers,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Lifted  Veil,  The.     By  Basil  King. 
Lighted  Way,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Lin  McLean,     By  Owen  Wister. 
Lonesome  Land.     By  B.  M.  Bower. 
Lone  Wolf,  The.     By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Long  Ever  Ago.     By  Rupert  Hughes. 
Lonely  Stronghold,  The.     By  Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds. 
Long  Live  the  King.     By  Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 
Long  Roll,  The.     By  Mary  Johnston. 
Lord  Tony's  Wife.     By  Baroness  Orczy. 
Lost  Ambassador.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Lost  Prince,  The.     By  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 
Lydia  of  the  Pines.    By  Honore  Willsie. 

Maid  of  the  Forest,  The.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Maid  of  the  Whispering  Hills,  The.     By  Vingie  E.  Roe. 

Maids  of  Paradise,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Maior,  The.     By  Ralph  Connor. 

Maker  of  History,  A.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Malefactor.  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Man  from  Bar  20,  The.     By  Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Man  in  Grey.  The.     By  Baroness  Orczy. 

Man  Trail,  The.     By  Henry  Oyen. 

Man  Who  Couldn't  Sleep,  The.    By  Arthur  Stringer. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 


Man  with  the  Club  Foot,  The.    By  Valentine  Williams. 

Mary-'Gusta.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mary  Moreland.     By  Marie  Van  Vorst. 

Mary  Regan.     By  Leroy  Scott. 

Master  Mummer.  The.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Memoirs  of  Sherlock  Holmes.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Men  Who  Wrought,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Mischief  Maker,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Missioner,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Miss  Million's  Maid.     By  Berta  Ruck. 

Molly  McDonald.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Money  Master,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Money  Moon,  The.    By  Jeflfery  Farnol. 

Mountain  Girl,  The.    By  Payne  Erskine. 

Moving  Finger,  The.     By  Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln. 

Mr.  Bingle.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Mr.  Grex  of  Monte  Carlo.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Mr.  Pratt.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mr.  Pratt's  Patients,     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Mrs.  Belfame.     By  Gertrude  Atherton. 

Mrs.  Red  Pepper.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

My  Lady  Caprice.     By  Jeffrey  Farnol. 

My  Lady  of  the  North.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

My  Lady  of  the  South.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Mystery  of  the  Hasty  Arrow,  The.    By  Anna  K.  Green. 

Nameless  Man,  The.     By  Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln. 

Ne'er-Do-Well,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Nest  Builders,  The.     By  Beatrice  Forbes-Robertson  Hale. 

Net,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

New  Clarion.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 

Night  Operator,  The.     By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Night  Riders,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Nobody.     By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Okewood  of  the  Secret  Service.     By  the  Author  of  "The 

Man  with  the  Club  Foot." 
One  Way  Trail,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Open,  Sesame.     By  Mrs.  BaiIHe  Reynolds. 
Otherwise  Phyllis.     By  Meredith  Nicholson. 
Outlaw,  The.     By  Jackson  Gregory. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 


Paradise  Auction.    By  Nalbro  Bartley. 

Pardners.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Parrot  &  Co.     By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Partners  of  the  Night.     By  Leroy  Scott. 

Partners  of  the  Tide.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Passionate  Friends,  The.     By  H.  G.  Wells. 

Patrol  of  the  Sun  Dance  Trail,  The.     By  Ralph  Connor. 

Paul  Anthony,  Christian.     By  Hiram  W.  Hays. 

Pawns  Count,  The.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

People's  Man,  A.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim, 

Perch  of  the  Devil.     By  Gertrude  Atherton. 

Peter  RufiF  and  the  Double  Four.    By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Pidgin  Island.    By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Place  of  Honeymoon,  The.     By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Pool  of  Flame,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Postmaster,  The.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Prairie  Wife,  The.    By  Arthur  Stringer. 

Price  of  the  Prairie,  The.    By  Margaret  Hill  McCarter. 

Prince  of  Sinners,  A.     By  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Promise,  The.    By  J.  B.  Hendryx. 

Proof  of  the  Pudding,  The.    By  Meredith  Nicholson. 


Rainbow's  End,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Ranch  at  the  Wolverine,  The.     By  B.  M.  Bower. 

Ranching  for  Sylvia.     By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Ransom.     By  Arthur  Somers  Roche. 

Reason  Why,  The.     By  Elinor  Glyn. 

Reclaimers,  The.    By  Margaret  Hill  McCarter. 

Red  Mist,  The.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Red  Pepper  Bums.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond, 

Red  Pepper's  Patients.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Rejuvenation  of  Aunt  Mary,  The.     By  Anne  Warner. 

Restless  Sex,  The.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Return  of  Dr.  Fu-Manchu,  The.    By  Sax  Rohmer. 

Return  of  Tarzan,  The.    By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 

Riddle  of  Night,  The.     By  Thomas  W.  Hanshew. 

Rim  of  the  Desert,  The.     By  Ada  Woodruff  Anderson. 

Rise  of  Roscoe  Paine,  The.    By  J.  C.  Lincoln. 

Rising  Tide,  The.    By  Margaret  Deland. 


Popular  Copyright  Novels 

AT  MODERATE  PRICES 

Ask  Your  Dealer  for  a  Complete  List  of 
A.  L.  Burt  Company's  Popular  Copyright  Fiction 


Rocks  of  Valpre,  The.     By  Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Rogue  by  Compulsion,  A.     By  Victor  Bridges. 

Room  Number  3.     By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Rose  in  the  Ring,  The.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Rose  of  Old  Harpeth,  The.     By  Maria  Thompson  Daviess. 

Round  the  Corner  in  Gay  Street.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Second  Choice.    By  Will  N,  Harben. 

Second  Violin,  The.    By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Secret  History.     By  C  N.  &  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Secret  of  the  Reef,  The-    By  Harold  Bindloss. 

Seven  Darlings,  The.     By  Gouverneur  Morris. 

Shavings.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Shepherd  of  the  Hills,  The.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Sheriff  of  Dyke  Hole,  The.     By  Ridgwell  CuUum. 

Sherry.     By  George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Side  of  the  Angels,  The.     By  Basil  King. 

Silver  Horde,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Sin  That  Was  His,  The.     By  Frank  L.  Packard. 

Sixty-first  Second,  The.     By  Owen  Johnson. 

Soldier  of  the  Legion,  A.     By  C.  N.  &  A.  M.  Williamson. 

Son  of  His  Father,  The.     By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Son  of  Tarzan,  The.     By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 

Source,  The.     By  Clarence  Buddington  Kelland. 

Speckled  Bird,  A.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Spirit  in  Prison,  A.     By  Robert  Hichens. 

Spirit  of  the  Border,  The.     (New  Edition.)     By  Zane  Grey. 

Spoilers,  The.     By  Rex  Beach. 

Steele  of  the  Royal  Mounted.     By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 

Still  Jim.     By  Honore  Willsie. 

Story  of  Foss  River  Ranch,  The.    By  Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Story  of  Marco,  The.     By  Eleanor  H.  Porter. 

Strange  Case  of  Cavendish,  The.     By  Randall  Parrish. 

Strawberry  Acres.     By  Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Sudden  Jim.     By  Clarence  B.  Kelland. 

Tales  of  Sherlock  Holmes.  By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 
Tarzan  of  the  Apes.  By  Edgar  R.  Burroughs. 
Tarzan  and  the  Jewels  of  Opar.    By  Edgar  Rice  Burroughs 


BBC 
BxeU 


